His Name, Arthur
by Carver Twain
Summary: (Uther's War Fails, Druid Merlin AU) In a land of myth and a time of magic, the destiny of a great kingdom rests on the shoulders of a young warrior. His name: Arthur... Years after the war that King Uther waged against magic, the dust is settling. The Druids make their move. Emrys is ready to lead them. But the rise to power is dangerous and Emrys will need a warrior by his side.
1. Bran the Bear

Chapter 1: Bran the Bear

* * *

Arthur didn't know whether to be grateful or furious that he had finally found the path. It was good that he had finally stumbled upon it. It meant he was going in the right direction. But then, many feet had trudged along this worn dirt path recently, tamping down the snow. And that partially melted snow had apparently refrozen each night since, creating a slippery slide down the hill. Arthur skidded and nearly lost his balance again, swearing. What was the point in even trying if he was just going to slip and fall and die in the snow? The pack and large shield on his back made him a human turtle and he doubted he could get up again if he did fall. He'd die, legs stuck up in the air, like creation's biggest joke. To be honest, he wasn't sure if he wasn't that already. His life had, by now, become pretty dedicated to being a farce.

He could hear voices now. Probably getting pretty close now. Arthur knew that the village he was looking for was down in a glen, beside a low-lying stream of some sort. He stopped a moment to catch his breath. His stomach cramped up again, reaching a talon of pain around inside his abdomen. The rumblings of an empty stomach had long ago stopped. Now he simply cramped up. Thank the gods he was near to the village, at least. His supplies had run out a day and a half ago. Frozen with cold and drinking snow was not the way he wanted to go, if he was going to die. He would prefer something a little… warmer, perhaps?

Arthur pushed himself forward again and began his descent down the hill again, grabbing a tree every so often as he went to steady himself. He finally reached the bottom and the smell of woodsmoke and voices of other human beings overwhelmed him. Every time. Every time it was a little bit harder to walk back into a village or a city or just simply look at people. Pulling himself back into humanity was, by now, a chore. After trees and sky and rocks and rushing waters, people just looked strange. They talked too loud, or too much, or just all the time. He shook his head and gathered himself, then pushed forward.

The village was small, compared to what cities he had seen before in his life, but it was decent-sized. The buildings were laid out radially, doubtless from a central firepit that he had not spotted yet. Arthur found himself walking towards this center. There were homes, some big and some merely shacks. Most were wavering in whatever breeze blew through the trees. A few stalls were dotted here and there, furs and meats were the main commodity. But there had to be a blacksmith somewhere; Arthur could hear the clink of his hammer somewhere in the village. He would have to remember that. His weapons needed sharpening, desperately. The whole villages looked like a trading post more than anything at first glance. It lay deep in a forest with no fields nearby in which to grow crops. No roads led to it, only small footpaths that, to be honest, looked fairly recent. This was not an entirely permanent settlement. And if it was going to be, it had not been here long.

People were walking about, tending to their homes or their businesses. Any of them would do. Arthur stuck his arm out and grabbed the next person who was passing him in the opposite direction, a young dark-haired man with a bow and quiver on his back.

"Your chief, I would speak with him." Arthur's voice came out hoarse. How long had it been since he used it last? He made sure to make eye contact with the man. It was hard. People looked so strange.

The man had jumped a little at being manhandled, but quickly regained himself. He didn't pull himself out of Arthur's tight grip though, matching his stare. "Through there." He jerked his head backwards, to the central fire pit of the village. "He's meeting with the others. Are you here to join?"

Arthur let go of the man and began making his way to the center of the village.

The man followed him, walking right beside him. "You look familiar, were you-"

"No." Arthur kept walking.

The man would not shut up. "But didn't you-"

Arthur wanted to stuff his hand down the man's throat and silence him that way. But it would make a scene. So he settled for making a slightly smaller scene. From his belt he pulled a knife, grabbed the man's shirt collar, and pressed the blade to his belly.

He growled his words, pulling them up from his stomach and forcing them through the days of thirst and exhaustion that rested like a dusty cave-in in his throat. "I'm not here to talk, I'm here to kill people, for money. Don't make me kill for free."

The man held up his hands, shying away from the knife. "My mistake!"

Arthur released him and began walking again. He didn't look back to see if the man left him alone. Didn't matter. He did. They all did, soon enough.

The village was becoming more domestic and less wild as he moved towards the center. This was the home of the innocents, women and children, those that tended hearths and prepared food. Children would run past every so often. Women with babes in arms sat by cookfires. Dried herbs and flowers hung at every doorway. Small clouds of frozen breath, hovered, appearing in a strange rhythm from the mouths of those who worked and played and spoke. Music from somewhere, someone was singing. Arthur could not see. The singer must have been behind a hut, beyond his view. But a woman's voice with some kind of harp playing along. Music. Music bouncing off stone walls in a chamber sounded very different compared to out here, with the notes flying off into the sky and trees. Smoke hung low in the air over the village, like a blanket over a corpse.

Arthur sighed. Too many bodies. Too many soft, warm, vulnerable bodies, all together, in one place. This village was a bright red target. What was he getting himself into?

The central fire was closer now and he could see an older man standing by it. Probably the chief, since his robes were well-made; they weren't gaudy and were functional, but elegant. Plus, he was wearing robes. Anyone engaged in matters of the state, and not anything else, wore robes. They were so damn easy to trip on obviously. Anyone else with a real profession wore trousers.

Around the robed man were a few figures, men like him. Men like Arthur, with swords on their hips and darting eyes. He knew that any of those men saw him coming well before the chief did. He didn't care. Let them know it.

Arthur drew level with the group. All their eyes were watching him now. Let them look and dare him to speak. They were talking but he opened his mouth and spoke over them anyway. "Bran the Bear. I'm here to offer my services."

* * *

Emrys could not remember the last time someone had called him by his real name, the name his mother had given him. He closed his eyes and lifted his head towards the sky, feeling the warmth of the small floating fire by his head that he had conjured a moment ago because of the cold. It cracked and popped quietly, right into his ear. Always a calming sound. His shivers subsided a little. He tried to remember his mother saying it, his name. Or saying anything at all. It was no use. Emrys had thought he could remember her voice. But nothing was there now. How many more memories were gone without him knowing it, leaving like thieves in the night?

"Merlin." He whispered aloud, to himself.

"Lord Emrys!"

Well, that didn't last long.

Emrys opened his eyes and turned around at the sound of his name, snatching the little fire from out of the air like a butterfly and stuffing it, fluttering, in his pocket. A dark-haired young man was striding towards him, shin-deep in snow, and a bow and quiver on his back. Emrys bent over and picked up the robe he had shed and dropped in the snow, pulling it back on over his head, struggling for a moment or two. See, this is why he had taken it off in the first place. Tromping out in the woods was no place for robe-wearing, no matter how well they kept you warm. Who needed wool robes when you could just carry flames in your pockets? Once he'd gotten the wool away from his eyes he saw that the man was beside him now.

"Just gathering kindling." Emrys explained and bent over, picking up the bundle of sticks that he'd collected.

The man grabbed a few of the branches that fell from Emrys' stack. "Aren't you cold? You're in the snow up to your knees."

"No." Emrys shook his head and held out his hand for the rest of his kindling. The man handed it to him. "I have this fellow to keep me warm." He then, with some difficulty, balanced the sticks he carried in one arm and pulled the small floating fire out of his pocket. It rested in the palm of his hand for a minute before floating up and hovering just above his right shoulder.

The man nodded, eyes wide. He stood there a moment, staring at the flame, before he shook his head as though to clear it. "Yes, well, Lord Iseldir sent me. Said that you aren't to go alone anymore."

"I'm just about within shouting distance of the camp." Emrys shrugged, then straightened his bundle as he grumbled. "He worries too much."

The man took the bow off his back and held it in his hand. "I suppose he'd prefer you entirely within shouting distance, you see, if you had to shout. For help, for instance." The man raised an eyebrow at him.

Emrys could not help but grin. The archer had a point. Emrys didn't care. But the man had a point. "I'll try to remember that next time, uh…" By the gods, who was this? Emrys stared into those large brown eyes for a moment or two, taking in the, rather tall but in no way large, man. He'd seen this man around camp for the past few days; talking to Iseldir, playing with the children. Had they actually met yet? Emrys had been making himself scarce lately. Too much attention on him. "What's your name again? You've just gotten here, I think."

"Lancelot, my lord."

Emrys laughed, nearly dropping his load of kindling and slipping a little in the snow.

The newly-named Lancelot frowned. "I'm sorry?"

Emrys started the hike back to the village, trudging through the path that Lancelot had just made. The little fire followed along, still hovering just above his shoulder. "Just Emrys. Don't worry about the 'lord' bit." He shot a look back over his shoulder at the archer, who was following single-file behind him. "So, why are you here?"

"Iseldir sent me-"

"No, no. I mean," Emrys was huffing and puffing now, clouds of his breath swirling up and away. The snow was unyielding. "Why've you joined us? Are you a warrior?" He glanced back again.

"Oh, yes, well. I want to be one, a warrior, one day." Lancelot was panting now too. "I heard the rumors of the journey Iseldir plans to make, and I thought it would be good…practice. Do you want me to carry that? The sticks?"

"I've got it. Why do you want to fight?" Emrys slowed a little. There were puddles of refrozen snow as they neared the small village, and it was slick and uneven. "Money?" He slid suddenly on some ice. The world became weightless for a moment.

His companion's hand shot out and steadied him. "You ok?"

"Yes, thanks!" Emrys stumbled a little but soon righted himself. "So?"

"What?"

"Do you fight for money?"

"Oh…you know, not really." Lancelot was watching his footing now too. "Protect the innocent, defend the week, all that…stuff. Money isn't really a part of it."

Strange… Most of the warriors they were attracting were mercenaries, soldiers left over from past battles that were a decade old by now. No masters, no pay, hungry for food and work. Emrys hadn't encountered many men ready to fight for a cause rather than a full belly.

They finally got onto solid ground, the snow mostly trodden down or away in the muddy streets of the village. The smell of smoke and herbs floated about like a cloud over the small buildings. Emrys breathed it in and sighed. Back home. He turned to Lancelot and smirked. "Thanks for the protection."

Lancelot nodded and replaced his bow on his back. He rubbed his hands together for warmth. "Better safe than sorry, especially after the attack couple days ago."

Emrys watched Lancelot for a moment, then answered. "Yes." He looked around. "Well…help me take these to Widow Emrah?"

"Of course." Lancelot held out his arms and Emrys gave half the burden to him.

Emrys reached back to his shoulder and snuffed out the fire like he would a fly. "Follow me."

They wended their way amongst the small stalls and lean-tos, the muddy street churning with ash and snow and refuse. As they moved farther in, the shops disappeared and the small, well-built cabins appeared and the warm, smoking huts. Cookfires sat outside of many homes. Every fire they passed was a welcome wave of warmth. Emrys watched Lancelot as they walked, or least, as best as he could without being noticed. He seemed nice. But these days it was a frightening affair to have strangers wandering about, near homes, near children. It felt like it was becoming harder and harder to protect everyone. And soon, it may become impossible. Every new person that was invited into the fold was a potential danger. Emrys had learned this by now. And he wished he hadn't. He wished he could trust again. He wished-

"You call this sharp? I couldn't kill someone with this if I wanted to!" He heard some man sneer, voice raised.

A chorus of laughter rang out, muffled slightly by the snow on the ground.

"I'm sorry, sir, I really don't have- aah!" Another voice, another man, frightened and quivering. He cried out.

Emrys looked around. Must be coming from behind one of the huts there… to the right. He slowed and stopped.

"Emrys?" Lancelot stopped beside him.

"You're no more blacksmith than I am a king! Honestly! Look at this?!"

More jeering. Insults, like "Idiot!" and "Soft 'n the head!", joined the laughter.

Emrys felt himself frown and started walking towards the commotion.

"Is this sharp?"

A yelp. Followed by another.

"Is this sharp?"

Emrys rounded a corner. He heard Lancelot following him, slipping and sliding in the muddy snow. The archer was asking him something but Emrys wasn't listening at this point. Probably wasn't saying anything useful. Doran's small smithy came into view. Yes, just as he suspected. Emrys groaned inwardly.

A few of the warriors that Emrys had seen around the village for the past few days were circled about Doran's smithy. They were large men, encrusted with age and experience and who knows how much dirt, and they had been trickling in for the past week. Iseldir had elected to keep the less wild-looking ones. Emrys had stayed out of that process; not wasn't really his area of expertise. Besides, hadn't been particularly pleased to hire any of them. And here was his proof. One man, blonde and young, held his sword-point to Doran's belly and was poking him, hard. He laughed as the smith shied away from the blade, terrified for his life. The rest of them laughed and jeered. None of the villagers had stepped in yet. Thank the gods they hadn't. He had to deal with this himself, no one else should. Emrys sighed and opened his mouth.

"Hey, come on, that's enough!" He called out.

They all turned to him. Doran's eyes flashed from the end of the sword that was poking his stomach, to Emrys, and back again.

Lancelot, still standing behind him, put a hand to Emrys' shoulder and squeezed. Emrys knew he didn't look intimidating. He knew he was dealing with dangerous men. But damn it all if they thought they could just pick on anyone in the village. Especially if that village was feeding and sheltering them. They were just a bunch of prats. Dumb prats. Doing prattish things.

The blond man doing the poking smirked. "What?" He asked.

Emrys' knees trembled, his body telling him he was scared even though his thoughts were calm and collected. Funny how that worked. "You've had your fun, my friend." He answered.

"Emrys…" Lancelot mumbled from just behind his shoulder.

The blond arse sheathed his sword. "Do I know you?"

Emrys stared the man down while taking a few steps forward. A couple of the other warriors chuckled, and Emrys suspected it was because they thought it was funny for a small boy to challenge a man, like a mouse taking on a cat. He'd been dealing with that misconception for years.

Emrys held out his hand. "I'm Emrys."

The stupid blond man shrugged and wouldn't take his hand. "So, I don't know you."

"No." Emrys wasn't sure where the blond arse was taking this conversation.

The blond boar grinned. "Yet you called me 'friend'." A couple more laughs.

Ah. I see. Emrys dropped his hand. "That was my mistake."

"Yes, I think so." And the blond dunce leaned on a column supporting the smithy roof and folded his arms.

What a smug toad. Emrys smiled and shook his head. "Yeah. I'd never have a friend who could be such an ass." He looked over to the blacksmith. "Doran, come with-"

The warrior interrupted. "Or I, one who could be so stupid." And the laughter started up again.

Emrys turned back to the blond menace.

"Emrys…" Lancelot called to him from somewhere behind.

Your concern has been noted, Lancelot.

"Tell me, Em-Reese." And the man, hand on his sword hilt, sauntered towards Emrys and stood before him. "Do you know how to walk on your knees?"

Emrys did. He supposed maybe the arse was talking about showing some respect. But right now he didn't see anything before him worth showing respect to. So he just answered, "No."

"Would you like me to help you?"

This man wanted a fight. He wasn't going to be talked out of it. He had come looking for one. And now he had one.

"I wouldn't if I were you." He warned. Last chance, clotpole.

The blond stinging fly chuckled and leaned in. "Why? What are you going to do to me?"

I have no idea. "You have no idea."

And the warrior grinned. "Be my guest! Come-" He didn't have a chance to finish that sentence.

Emrys threw out his arm. And pushed. Hard.

And the man flew. Damn! It was satisfying, seeing that body tumbling through the air. The blond arsehole flew a few yards and landed deep in the mud of the street, leaving a gouge in the street as he slid.

Emrys strode forward, whispering, and a fire popped into life in his hand as he approached the fallen warrior. All the others had fallen silent, watching, some drew back. Some walked away. The blond man was just starting to pick himself up when Emrys drew level with him. He put his muddy foot on the man's chest and pushed down, hard enough to send a message.

Emrys growled. "I'll have you thrown out of this village for that." And the flames sprang a little higher in his hand.

The man coughed a little. "What, who do you think you are? The Chief?"

Emrys pondered this for a moment. "Yes, I think I am." He nodded. "Lord Emrys, Chieftain of the Druids, nice to meet you, you slimy git." He extinguished the fire. "What are you called?"

"Damn." The man sighed and laid his head back into the mud. "Bran the Bear."


	2. Old Friends

Chapter 2: Old Friends

* * *

Arthur was sitting by the meeting house, wiping just about the last of the foul-smelling mud from his hair, when the scrawny brat with the big ears threw open the door, stalked outside, gave him the nastiest look, then walked off down the street. His robes were about a size too big and dragged in the mud, making him stumble every so often.

At least there's that, Arthur reasoned. He's just as clumsy as he looks, gangly limbs and all elbows and thumbs. Small comfort.

The druid boy had tossed him like a skipping stone. Arthur hadn't expected something like that from a stupidly small body. Of course he hadn't. Who would? It had just been a bit of harmless fun. The blacksmith was terrible at his job and should never had been employed. He had near ruined Arthur's sword. The only sword he had. His livelihood. And than that little turd had shown up and beat him soundly. How was he supposed to know that arse was a Chieftain? And then at a word from the druid boy, a couple of the mercenaries that he'd just been laughing with had hauled him to his feet and brought him here to the meeting house.

Iseldir, the robed man who hired Arthur, had been holed up in there nigh a half an hour with the boy chieftain while Arthur waited outside, hands bound and being watched by another mercenary-turned-guard. His sword had disappeared and Arthur couldn't promise the safety of whoever was holding it hostage.

A minute later, Iseldir walked outside too. He looked Arthur over then glanced back up at the guard. "Untie him." Then he leaned over, whispered something else to the guard, and walked back inside. "Enter, Bran!" He called to Arthur.

Arthur kept silent as he hands were untied then followed Iseldir, closing the door behind him. It was a flimsy door. He might could break it in half with his bare hands. Good door to have. If he were a raider.

The meeting hall was less a hall and more a hovel. It was a rough shack that kept out most of the wind, housed a few benches covered in furs, and a central fire pit. Dried herbs were hung on the walls, some greener from snow-hardy herbs, some dusty and gray from the summer months. Arthur had seen halls, and this wasn't one of them.

"Have a seat." Iseldir pointed to a bench near where he had already settled. The man was silver-haired and willowy. He looked like a downy feather in his soft robes. Just one good puff of air and he'd be gone, carried by the wind.

Arthur sat down. Folded his hands.

"I won't talk to you like a child, Bran-" Iseldir began.

"Good." Arthur grunted.

There was the slightest frown, but otherwise Iseldir ignored Arthur. "But I will talk to you." And now he waited for another comment.

Arthur kept his mouth shut, watching the druid man.

Iseldir nodded. "This isn't a kingdom or a government, we have no laws. But in addition to that, we have no lawlessness. We have rules, and traditions, and community." He sighed, averted his eyes from Arthur and instead looked to the fire.

Arthur wondered whether he had made Iseldir uncomfortable with his stare. Too bad.

Iseldir reached down and took a stick from the fire, the tip glowing red hot and crumbling, and stoked the fire. Sparks flew up and away through the hole in the roof. "For assaulting Doran, your duties from now on will be to attend to our elder healer. You will be his assistant and escort. He is in need of an extra set of hands and I presently have no wish to give you a role where you will have authority."

Assault? He'd poked the man…albeit with a sword. But he hadn't done damage. It was true the druids needed protecting, but they also needed protection from themselves. For their own good. They weren't going to survive long with ideas like this. They'll be eaten alive. Well… He'd make sure of it if he didn't get his sword back.

But Arthur nodded.

"This village is a whole. There can be no discord within, only harmony. We work together. Do you understand?" Iseldir shoved the stick back into the fire before standing up.

Yes, sure, you want harmony and love and peace? Just remove the all human beings from the village and then you'll get your wish. Prick.

But Arthur just nodded.

Iseldir paced around the meeting hovel a few times, looking up at the door every so often. "Now about Lord Emrys."

He's a prick too.

Iseldir continued. "In the future, I would advise…strongly advise that you answer to him and not question his authority."

Hold on a moment, he'd never met the brat before today how was he supposed to know?

Arthur sighed. "Never saw him before."

"For good reason." Iseldir's back had been to Arthur, but he turned around now. The orange glow of the fire made his silver hair look alight with flames. "He is the future leader of all druids and needs to be protected. If everyone knew him by sight…well, it is better no one recognizes him. I trust you will keep your distance from him from now on."

Easier said than done. Arthur wanted to tear the little chieftain's head off.

"I will." Arthur cleared his throat and stood. This meeting hall felt like a coffin. The air was thin and the heat was suffocating him. Time to get out.

"You will be sent away, with no pay, if you threaten him again."

Arthur could hear a warning in Iseldir's words. But it was untested and untried. No mettle behind the words. No blood. No experience.

"Won't even look at him." Arthur shrugged. Now where was his sword? Did he hear footsteps? He strained his ears.

"Well, I don't think there's any need- ah!" Iseldir's eyes flashed to the creaking door and he smiled. "There you are!"

Arthur whipped about.

Iseldir walked around the benches and embraced the old man that had just entered. "Thank you for coming, Gaius. I have your new assistant here and ready for your approval."

He went pale. His heart pounded. Arthur felt like he'd just been stabbed in the heart and fallen face first in snow. The meeting hall spun around him. And then Gaius was looking at him. Really looking at him. Bile in his throat. Arthur coughed. His nose stung. Gods…Gaius! Arthur held out his hand to the old man. He watched the color drain from Gaius' face too. But the old man shook his hand anyway, a firm grip, looking Arthur straight in the eyes.

"I think he'll do." Gaius' voice floated to Arthur's ear from a distance.

Iseldir was still talking. "Gaius, this is Bran. Treat him well."

"I will." Gaius let go of Arthur's hand then backed away, towards the door. "Come…Bran, is it? I'll show you to the healing house."

Arthur nodded to Iseldir then followed the old man out into the cold. They walked side by side in the muddy street. Arthur kept silent. As did the old man. What was there to be said? Nothing could be said. Nothing should be said. But still his heart throbbed like he was running from something, something huge with large teeth. And it was gaining on him. Faster and faster. Arthur couldn't keep this up forever. He opened his mouth.

"Your name isn't 'Bran'…is it?" Gaius murmured from beside him as they walked. The way was slow and they had to pick their way through the mud.

"I know yours is certainly 'Gaius'." Arthur fell in behind the old man as they approached a small hut.

The old man slipped in the mud. Arthur caught him by the arm. He steadied Gaius and the old man murmured some thanks. They continued walking and reached the hut. Arthur didn't let go of the Gaius' arm. He wasn't sure why. His hand remained there and he let it and Gaius let it. They entered the healing house through the wide door, side by side. Once past the cloth that covered the doorway, Arthur found himself embraced. The scent of Gaius was familiar and so sad that Arthur could not hold back the tears. He didn't even try. The hug lasted ages and it felt like he'd collapse if the old man let go of him.

But he finally pulled away.

Gaius held Arthur's face in his hands, looking up at him, eyeing him. "I can't believe it."

"Me neither." Arthur's voice was hoarse and his blinked. Tears ran and wetted Gaius's fingers on his cheeks.

"Arthur, my dear boy, you have grown so much."

Arthur could only just nod, closing his eyes and frowning against a sob. He took a deep breath. Let it out. And another. "Where have you been?"

Gaius let his hands drop from Arthur's face. "I could ask you the same."

"I know." Arthur nodded and looked about before sitting heavily on a stool that he found. "I have been…away."

Gaius squeezed Arthur's shoulder and walked away. "You're one of the mercenaries that Iseldir hired." Behind Arthur's back, he could hear Gaius clinking and moving something at the worktable there.

"And you've been working as a healer?"

"Learning, more like." Gaius reappeared in Arthur's field of vision with a cup of something that smelled spiced and warm. "They have much to teach."

Arthur snorted and took the cup. "Do they?" He took a sip and winced at the overpowering sweetness. The healing house was about the same size as the meeting hall. There were cots for patients. A central fire pit too. To the side were rough-hewn worktables, well, rough enough to just give the impression of a table. And atop the tables sat all manner of herbs and vials and bottles and bowls and other strange-looking things. It looked just like Gaius' old chambers. Smelled like it too. Just breathing was enough to wrench Arthur back, back in time, to another faraway place that was long gone.

Gaius had pulled up a stool and sat opposite Arthur now, sipping at his own drink, and nodded. "I confess…" He stared at Arthur a moment before sighing. Arthur watched the old man's knuckles turn white as he gripped his cup. "Why would you come here? It is not safe…well, for you. You do know that, correct?"

Arthur took a gulp from his cup and grimaced as it went down. "Yeah." He coughed, nodding, and studied the wall behind Gaius. "I know."

"Then…why?"

He shrugged. "I was looking for work."

Gaius was watching him, eyes glinting in the firelight. "You know of their plan." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

Arthur felt the old man's stare. Laid out like a filleted fish, with all his insides to the air for everyone to see. "Gaius…" He began.

The old man cut in. "I don't know what you intend to do, but-"

Arthur stood up. Gaius doesn't understand. How could he? "I can't just let them-"

Gaius stood too, slower than Arthur, but he faced him. "Arthur, the war is over!"

"It's not! It is not over!" He dashed the cup on the floor. The room was hot. He couldn't breathe. "Out there, they fight like dogs over an inch of land. And these people are still hiring people like me. They are still building armies. They are still marching! The only difference, is that there are no victories now! No one wins, but the war still rolls on!" The little clay cup lay in pieces at his feet. Gods, did he feel like that cup right now. In pieces and at the feet of something much greater than himself. The tears came again.

Gaius stood there a moment. Set his cup on a table. Then crouched and began picking up the pieces.

"Gaius-" Arthur felt his voice catch and didn't dare say another word. His next might be a sob. So he just stood there. Watching the old man pick up the pieces.

Gaius eventually straightened up and laid the broken cup out on the table next to its whole brother. "Arthur… You must be careful."

Arthur hung his head and nodded.

Arthur felt the old man's hand on his shoulder. "I'll keep your secret, but you-…you have to promise me-"

"Yes." Arthur pulled away from Gaius' touch.

"Promise me that you won't-"

"I promise, Gaius."

"All right." The old man moved away to a work table across the room. "So you're my new assistant?"

"I'm afraid so." Arthur drew his sleeve across his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Well, we'll make a healer out of you yet."

Arthur looked up and Gaius was smiling at him. Arthur tried to give one back but it probably looked more frightening than anything else. Still, he had tried. That's what mattered. "So…" Arthur cleared his throat and walked over to the table too, studying the ingredients there. "What do you need help with today?"

"Well, Bran." And Gaius cocked an eyebrow at Arthur. "First we must make some deliveries."

"It's Bran the Bear." Arthur tried a smirk. That might have looked a little better.

"What?"

"My name, I'm known as Bran the Bear."

Gaius frowned. "That's ridiculous. Whoever came up with that?"

"I did!"

* * *

Lancelot had never seen anything more beautiful in his whole life.

This is it, he thought, nothing will compare to it.

The weight itself was like the feel of sunlight, warm and radiant. It flashed silver, appearing like a frozen stream of spring water against the backdrop of snow around him. Nothing had ever felt so right, so perfect, fitting the end of his arm like it was made for him. And this work of art, this shard of cold, pure lightning, belonged to a mercenary, a soldier for hire. And an ass of one, at that.

Lancelot let the tip of the sword rest gently in the snow. He was very careful. Not because he cared for Bran the Mercenary's sword, but because he, Lancelot, cared for it. After only ten minutes of having it in his hands, he was already in love. The other mercenaries had taken it from Bran after his beating and set it aside near what Lancelot assumed was Bran's tent. It had been there, sitting just inside the tent flaps. And when a wind blew through, the cloth lifted and showed the sword. It lay there, waiting for him. And Lancelot had walked by. And no one had been nearby.

Breath fogging and floating up away into the sky, Lancelot realized his was smiling, ear-to-ear. He hadn't smiled like this in a while.

So he had taken it. Just for a moment. Just for a few moments. Maybe just for the afternoon. He meant to give it back by today, at least. He lifted the blade and swung it again. The sword cut through the air, making that swishing noise that Lancelot found so satisfying. Satisfying like the first strawberries of the season, satisfying like diving into a still-secret swimming hole, and now he could add the swish of a sharp sword to his list of things to love.

The specter of a bandit rose before him. Lancelot parried the imaginary knife. Stabbed. The bandit went down, screaming. And the next came. And the next. Lancelot felt like a dancer. A brook of water flowing around the stones of his bed. Those stones, those bandits, were still and slow and permanent and he was life. Springing from enemy to enemy. He stopped, panting hard, feet numb in the snow. He was still grinning. His face hurt from smiling so much. He slid the beautiful blade into its scabbard and headed back to the village. He couldn't keep the sword. Though the idea of running away and taking the sword had occurred to him. Briefly. And briefly he had considered it.

Back onto the slippery path down to the Druid village, Lancelot picked his way through the mud and ice and snow. The smell of sweet woodsmoke echoed through the trees.

He had not been in this village long. Only a dozen or so days, maybe more, maybe less. He had lost count. He didn't need to count. He found that he didn't want to. The Druids were a kind people and something hummed in Lancelot's chest when he walked among them carrying his bow, or when Iseldir sent him to patrol the outskirts at night, or when that little old lady kept offering him the sweet buns with some kind of dried fruit every morning when he walked past on his way to the meeting hall. They were delicious. And she made him stop and eat them in front of her so she could see him enjoy them. Told him he was a very handsome boy. She was a funny old lady. And it was odd. And maybe it could be called tiresome. They were a quiet people. But that warm hum in his head and his heart was there. Every time.

His bow and quiver on his back and the sword in his hands, Lancelot entered the village again and began the slog through the mud-filled streets. Well, they were less mud-filled and more just made up of mud. The street was mud and the mud was street. There was no separating the two.

He passed two mercenaries standing by the campfire outside their tents, talking, murmuring something low to each other. But their eyes were on Lancelot. He quickly looked away. Kept walking. He gripped the sword tightly. He didn't really want to pass by those men again in order to put the sword back. He didn't like the look of them. What could he do? He was still carrying the kind-of-stolen sword.

The meeting hall appeared ahead. Ah! He could take it there, hand it off to Iseldir. Say something like: 'Saw this lying around, think it might belong to that blond asshole, I mean, the mercenary named Bran. Here you go.' And of course parting with the thing would be a sad act. But it wasn't his. One day, he'd have his own. And it would be more beautiful for the simple reason of being his own sword.

Speak evil's name and it shall appear. The blonde asshole popped from behind a corner. Between Lancelot and the meeting hall.

Shit!

Lancelot felt his face go white. He whipped the sword behind his back and held it there.

The old healer of the village was walking beside the blonde mercenary. What was his name? They were talking. Blonde Bran held onto the old man's elbow. Holding him steady, probably. The street was slick with mud and ice, after all. And then they saw him. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to duck into. Lancelot just froze in place. Idiot!

"Hello, Lance." The old man smiled at him. That's right. 'Gaius'. That was his name.

Lancelot could only manage to smile and nod. "H-hello."

Bran was staring at him. And his face was saying something like "murder". At least, that's what it looked like to Lancelot.

"How are your stitches healing up?" Gaius reached towards the hem of Lancelot's shirt.

He stepped back, sword still hidden, and stayed out of Gaius' reach. "It's better." He swallowed. "Thanks."

"Are you well, Lance?" Gaius frowned. "You look ill."

"Yes, Lance." Bran echoed. "You well?" He still had that 'murder stare' fixed on Lancelot.

He nodded. "I am, yes, I just-"

A scream rose up. And another. Someone ran past.

Lancelot spun around.

"Fire!" There was a shout. "Fire!

A column of smoke from the meeting hall. Too big. Too much smoke for the fire pit inside. Lancelot stared. From down the road, several men walked towards them. They were the mercenaries. Five mercenaries that the Druids had hired. Well, five of the seven… Lancelot glanced at Bran before looking back to the men. Swords were drawn, shone in the dim sun. Axes in hand. Gripped tight. Lancelot felt himself step back and start to run but he stopped himself because if he started running now he'd never stop. He had to stay. He had to.

"Emrys!" One of them called.

In front of them, the door to the meeting hall burst open and Iseldir stumbled in front of the warriors. He was coughing, down on his hands and knees, retching. A kick to the head and he went down hard in the mud. A mercenary took him by the arm and hauled the Druid to his feet. He held him there. The other four men surrounded them, facing out, weapons out. Some of the villagers were standing by, men holding staffs, but those were useless against steel. The women held aprons to their faces, hiding their eyes. Or they were ushering children away and into the huts. Some ran. Some cried. A baby wailed somewhere.

The man gripping the Druid called out again. "Emrys!" The shout rose above the huts, cutting though the winter air.

"Gaius." Lancelot whispered and beckoned to the old man. "Come away." Bran's hand was still on Gaius' arm and Lancelot did not like it. The old healer needed to move away from the mercenary. Now.

The old man looked to him, eyes wide. He didn't move.

Lancelot tried again. "Gaius, please." He knew that he brought the sword from behind his back and drew it. But he had not made that choice. The action was fluid. The motion was instant and felt like it was from memory. The scabbard landed on the ground. He held the sword out in front of him, towards Bran. Bran had not noticed yet, staring at the mercenaries that had set up camp in the middle of the street.

"Come out, Emrys! We have your precious advisor!"

Then Bran shifted, putting himself in front of Gaius. He put himself between Gaius and the view of the mercenaries. His hand reached behind and touched the old man's robes. Both were panting hard, the white breath flashing out into the air. In and out. Lancelot knew he was breathing hard too. The sword flashed in his hands. Felt like lightning. Weighed next to nothing.

"Don't try anything." One of the mercenaries spat, staring down Lancelot but unmoving. "Boy, you're beyond your skill here."

The step back was not in his ability anymore. There was only one direction now. One path laid out before him. Lancelot took a step forward. "Release him…now."

Smiles. Rough, cruel smiles. A laugh.

The man who held Iseldir lifted his face to the sky, roaring. "EMRYS!"

"That's my sword, you bastard!" Bran's voice came from somewhere beside Lancelot.

But Lancelot kept his eyes on the mercenaries and the bleeding Druid between them. "Release him."

"Stop!"

Lancelot opened his eyes, now understanding that he had closed them.

Emrys stood there, down the street and just past the meeting hall. Or what was left of the meeting hall. The wooden walls now licked with flames and wreathed in smoke. Emrys then started to walk towards the little group there. He raised a hand.

Bran muttered. "That won't work."

The tallest of the mercenaries, who was bald and wearing the most complete armor of the group and kept Iseldir in a tight grip, spoke up again. "Ah, ah!" Another warrior gripped the Druid by the hair and yanked back his head, and the bald mercenary pointed a pitted sword at his throat. "Not a word of magic, boy." The tall bald man motioned for the boy to approach. "Come here….quietly."

Emrys let his hand drop. But kept his distance. "What do you want?" He called.

The bald mercenary shook his head, laughing. "You! Come here or we kill him."

Emrys didn't move.

"It's always been you, boy. Do your friends a favor and give up."

Still, the dark-haired boy did not move a muscle.

The bald mercenary sighed. The pitted sword rose. Lancelot stepped forward.

A low rumble. Cries. Warriors flew. Away. Away from Iseldir. Flew in all directions.

Some landings soft, some hard. Two landed near Lancelot and Bran, rolling. The other flew across the street, away. Another hit the side of a hut. Crunch. Slid down, silent. Flopping onto the ground. Iseldir was pushed out of the bald mercenary's hands. He lay there in the mud. The bald man, still standing, pointed to a roof. Shouted something.

And Emrys was running. Running towards the warriors.

"Shoot him!"

Emrys raised his hand again.

"SHOOT HIM!"

Emrys went down. Lancelot blinked. The boy lay in the street. Feathered quarrel pointed towards the sky.

The men in front of Lancelot were getting up. Slipping and sliding in the mud. Getting to their feet, finding their weapons. The sword was in his hand. He was gripping it hard. Lancelot gritted his teeth. He stepped forward. He leapt forward. Drove the blade into the belly of the man that lay in the street. He choked. Horrible sound. Guttering of a candle.

Lancelot looked up. Bran was wrestling with the other mercenary who had landed near them. A long knife was bloody and held in a bloody hand. Bran straightened up and the body he created settled into the mud. Lancelot stared. Bran met his eyes, then turned. Lancelot looked too.

The bald mercenary and the third warrior held Emrys between them. The boy's head hung low, black hair waving back and forth. The arrow had pierced his upper thigh and the feathering at the end bobbed as his legs dragged along the street. Lancelot swallowed hard. The stolen sword was heavy in his hands. Their own blades were pressed to the young boy's body and they were walking down the street, walking away from the scene. Lancelot took a step forward.

"Don't." The bald man warned.

"My boy." Gaius whispered from the side. The words cut like a knife. Lancelot winced. He heard Bran groan.

Another mercenary joined their side, bow drawn and arrow nocked. This was the archer.

"We want him alive, but I won't hesitate to kill him if you try to strike us down!" The bald man growled, teeth bared. "Get the horses." The archer disappeared and reappeared with three horses. They tossed the Druid boy across the front of one horse and the bald man mounted that one. The other mercenaries mounted as well. And then in a spray of mud and ice, they were gone.

Lancelot let out a breath. He was yanked backwards. He yelped.

"Borrowing your bow." His bow was wrenched from his back.

Lancelot whirled around. Bran had just snatched an arrow from his quiver, was nocking the arrow, and jogging away.

Lancelot followed Bran. He ducked between huts, through a few alleyways, and emerged on the edge of the village. Just as the three horses and three mercenaries were galloping by. Bran stepped out and drew back the shot. The horses were about to disappear into the trees. Bran held the shot. Then let it fly.

A man fell from his horse. The bald mercenary and the archer kept their mounts and soon were lost to the forest. And so was Emrys.

"Good shot." Lancelot breathed. It had been masterful. One in a million. Beautiful-

Bran threw the bow to the ground and grabbed Lancelot by the collar. "I was aiming for the horse!" He snarled.


	3. Friendly Fire

Chapter 3: Friendly Fire

* * *

Emrys could not remember the last time he had been on a horse, but it had never been this uncomfortable. He watched the snow below fly by. Emrys would be the first to admit that he had never been a good rider and preferred his own two feet, but this was ridiculous. He was slung over the neck of the horse that the bald mercenary rode, held in place by that foul man. Head bumping on one side of the horse's body, arms hanging over, and his feet sticking out the other way. His hands were bound, tightly. When had that happened? Each jostle of the horse's gait drove the air from Emrys' stomach and made breathing a chore. Well, less a chore and more an impossibility. If these mercenaries wanted him alive they were doing a piss poor job of it.

Emrys would have laughed at his own joke if he could.

Another jostle from the horse sent a harsh spike of pain into the meat of his thigh and it radiated out. He gasped. Or tried to. His ears rang and the snow rushing below him faded a little. Right, the arrow. Forgotten about that. Must have snapped off somewhere. Or they pulled it out. The snow flew by. Oh, yes, he had forgotten again…he was being kidnapped. Right, work on that.

Emrys took a deep breath, as deep as he could, and tried to clear his head. Thoughts were muddled and maybe he had dozed off a few times. His thigh felt hot and unhappy and wet. Why was it wet? It was the only thing keeping him awake. Just focus. Another flash of pain. The snow flew by. Emrys took another breath. Clouds at the edges of his vision. Storm clouds. Just focus. Breathe. Snow below him. Cold wind. Breathe.

Between his dangling and bound hands, a small fire sprouted. It was warm. He had not noticed how numb and cold his hands were until that fire began to lick this fingers. He could just sit here and let it warm him… Just let it… No!

He had to act now. No time. Emrys spoke to the fire softly, asking it to burn through the ropes that bound his hands. It sparked and crackled and attacked the fibers. He watched the rope turn black, crumbling. Almost through. Almost-

"Hey!"

The mercenary had seen it. He had seen the fire. Grow bigger, burn!

The horse slowed to a trot. Another man's voice. Hand dug into his hair, grasped it, pulled, yanked back. His neck hurt.

"Aah!" Emrys could not help but cry out. Tears started in his eyes. Burn!

In the corner of his eye he saw a hand rise up, and something metal flashed. The hilt of a knife! The mercenaries were yelling about something. Probably did not matter. Nothing mattered. The blow was coming. He would be stunned. He would not escape. No! He had to move now. Now!

Emrys twisted about, body screaming in pain, bound hands thrusting the little fire into the mercenaries face. He screamed too. The other man screamed as well. Everyone was screaming. Good. The hand fell from his hair. The knife hilt did not fall. Emrys rocked and hurled himself backward. He landed, hard. The horse went on without him.

In the snow, he was in the snow. He could not breathe. The air was gone from his lungs. Hands still bound in front of his body, he worked hard to get to his feet. Finally, he stood, for a moment, then fell face first into the snow again. His leg, it was not working. Why was his leg not working? Emrys scrambled up, the mercenaries voices behind him again. Loud. Angry. They were moving closer. He stood again, looked down, blood. Ah, that's why his leg was not working.

Emrys started to limp away, back towards where he thought the village was. The horses were coming back, he could feel their hooves through the ground. The mercenaries yelled at him. Another arrow whistled by his shoulder. Did they want him dead or alive? They needed to make up their minds. He let the fire flare again between his hands and ripped. The bonds came apart, snapped. He panted and his head spun from the effort. Emrys kept moving forward, feet sinking the snow with every step. Without looking, he sent a wave of flame behind him. Screams again. That drained him too. He could not do that again, not for a while, hopefully it was enough. It was not deadly, just enough to distract the men and their horses. The animals whinnied. And with his leg nearly crumpling under him each time, Emrys began to jog. He headed for the thicker bits of wilderness and he did not stop. He headed for a steep gully, climbed down it. Slid down it, more like. The horses could not follow that way. Another arrow. He did not look back.

Minutes or hours later, Emrys could not tell, he realized that he had left the mercenaries a very easy trail. He stopped, panting and light-headed, and stared down at his tracks. True, his tracks might be noticeable due to the snow, but they were downright obvious since he left little drops of blood every few feet.

I am some sort of hart or fox they are hunting down. They have wounded me and now it is only a matter of time. I am prey.

He almost sat down in the snow right then. Sitting and breathing hard like some animal that can run no longer. Is that not what he was? Some trophy to have? Some beast to slay and parade its head about the town square? He laughed and almost fell into the snow.

But Emrys shook his head. No. Not yet. Not today. He took off his wool robe and then his thin tunic underneath. He hunched over in the cold wind, it cut into his bare skin, but he patiently put his robe back on. He then, gingerly, wrapped the tunic around his thigh and used the sleeves to knot it there. He pulled it as tight as he dared and world of snow and dark trees swam before his eyes. The sky was growing dim, so close to sunset. Flakes were falling again. More snow to come. The world slowly came back into focus.

Emrys took a deep breath. Keep moving. His thigh throbbed. Keep moving. He waded through the snow, clinging to and pushing off trees as he passed them. Wandering from tree to tree, knowing that this was generally the direction back to the village. A distant shout.

Emrys froze in place, leaning on a branch.

No, do not stop! What are you doing!?

Right, yes, keep moving. Emrys began plodding forward again. More shouts, two voices. They were catching up. Emrys hobbled along, crouching in thorn bushes as he went. Darting from cover to cover. If he could just keep enough distance between himself and his hunters, he might survive. Snow was falling faster now and it dampened all sounds. Emrys strained his ears over his own crunching steps. He hurried down a small hill into a gully where a stream had frozen over.

Voices again. So close.

Emrys hunched behind a large tree and stayed there. The mercenaries could not be more than a couple dozen paces away by now. How had they found him so fast? How had-

"…-blood disappeared ways back, we should turn around and try to pick it up again."

Voices from the small hill above him.

"True, these tracks could have been made by any animal."

"He can't have gotten far, let's go."

Voices faded.

They were leaving. They had lost his trail atop that hill. Emrys' heart pounded and he felt himself grinning. He might make it back to the village tonight. He might live. Gods, he was lucky. Thank the gods-

"Emrys! There you are!"

Fear washed through his veins, colder than any snow.

"Emrys!" Bran came into view from a thicket of trees, atop a snorting horse, and beckoning to him.

Emrys shook his head and stayed where he was, hiding behind that very loyal tree. He put a finger to his lips. He could tear this bastard apart. He might. He just might.

"What are you doing?" Bran slid off the horse and walked up to him. "I've come to take you back to the village. I expected a fight, but you've escaped them, right, or did they let you go because you wouldn't stop talking." The prat grinned. "Come on, let's get you home."

A bowstring thrummed. Emrys dove. Pushed the blonde clot-pole to the ground. They fell into the snow. An arrow whistled over head. Running, feet crunching in the snow. The two mercenaries were running down the hill. Towards them! They had been seen! Another arrow landed in the snow beside the prat and Emrys.

Emrys gripped the collar of the mercenary's jacket. "If we survive this, I will kill you!" He snarled.

* * *

How dare this little brat threaten him!

Arthur threw the young druid off and rolled over, stumbling in the snow, trying to get to his feet. One archer, one swordsman. Right.

How dare that little idiot try and intimidate him! He could crush the pipsqueak between his thumb and forefinger if he so wished.

Arthur reached for his sword. Damn! His hand met air. That's right. The Druids had it. Gods!

How dare this awful little prick make his life infinitely harder than it already was!

Arthur reached around his back for the bow and quiver he had stolen from the young man in the village. Bow was still strung. Good. He yanked out an arrow.

Of course this pitiful arse had to attract the worst sort of attention.

Arthur drew back the bow, nocked the arrow. The archer was doing the same. Arrow ready in the bow. The swordsman was still advancing. Arthur's heart skipped a beat. But the archer, at the foot of the hill now, flew back, landed hard in the snow. Arthur glanced to the side. The idiot Druid stood beside him, hand out towards the archer, panting. Good, some actual useful magic for once.

So perhaps having this blithering idiot here wasn't so bad.

The Druid boy fell into the snow.

No, never mind that. This was bad.

The boy did not move.

Arthur loosed his arrow. The swordsman was nearly upon him. But the archer took the arrow deep and now lay there, bleeding. Snow was red. Good. He saw the red. Good, good. The swordsman came at him. Arthur raised the bow above his head. Two hands, bracing.

Just as the blow fell from the sword. Sword flashed. Dull silver in the waning light. Arthur felt the blow echo through his body. Thrummed with it. The bow took the blow but could not take another.

The mercenary wrenched the sword out of the bow. It had bit deep. Almost cutting the wood in half.

Now what?

Arthur's mind raced. Somewhere, he knew that death was to come soon. A sword against an unarmed man. But he was not afraid. Just aware that he did not know what to do. He leapt back, away from another strike. The snow was thick. Difficult to move in. Arthur fumbled with the bow, reaching for another arrow. If he could just get off another shot. Just one more.

The bald mercenary lowered his sword slightly and held his ground. Unmoving, panting, breath white and clouded. He stared at Arthur. And he stared some more.

Arthur had the arrow in his fingers. Brought it to the bow. The bowstring snapped. Damn!

"I know you."

Arthur froze. He acutely felt the thick, wet flakes of snow that were now landing on his cheeks.

"I know you, boy." The mercenary spoke again. Lowered his sword into the snow.

Boy? He was a bit older than that.

The bald man squinted. His stance relaxed, only slightly, Arthur noted.

Something about the pattern of the man's expression. Something looked familiar, now that he thought about it. "What are you called?" Arthur gripped the arrow tight in his hand. It was the only sharp thing he could use at the moment.

"Veer, short for-"

"Bedivere." Arthur finished. He did not loosen the grip on the arrow.

"Sir Bedivere." The man corrected him, raising his sword again. And he gave some sort of mock bow. "My lord."

Arthur's insides shriveled. He looked to the Druid boy. The idiot lay in the snow, motionless. Perfect. More than likely, the Druid would be taken and his standing with the rest of the Druids would be ruined. If he was not killed. If. Still, he could not let this man take the boy. He needed him.

"That's all over." Arthur growled, he moved slowly to the Druid's body, standing over it now.

"It's not." The former knight circled a little, keeping Arthur just within the reach of his sword. "Not for some of us. We want the old ways back. And to do it," And he nodded at the Druid in the snow. "We need him. Join us."

Arthur gritted his teeth and kicked the still Druid a little. Nothing. Wake up, damn you!

"I'm not a part of that anymore." Arthur hissed, but there was nothing behind his words but lies. He could feel them, slithering like boiling snakes in his belly. He felt curdled, inside and out, from the wrongness of that lie.

"You could do it here." Bedivere whispered. "Do it quick and quiet. Ride away. No one would know. And you would solve a lot of problems."

It was tempting. And that hurt his pride. Tempting to kill an unarmed man. Slit the throat of an unconscious boy. Arthur suppressed a shudder.

"Why do you need him alive then?" Arthur kicked the Druid again. Still nothing. He may already be dead. What a pity.

"Leverage." Veer grunted. "

"I see."

"Join us, my lord, and-"

"I'm not your lord anymore!" Arthur took a step forward.

I'm not a lord, I'm Bran. Bran the Bear. Somebody's bastard. Nobody's concern.

"I never was." Arthur blinked back tears. Bran stood his ground. "And I'm not letting you walk away with this boy."

"He's the enemy, don't you see?"

Bedivere wasn't guarding his right side, Arthur saw. If he struck quickly. If he was very quick. "I do see. I just don't care." He clutched the single arrow so hard it hurt his fingers. Bran was ready. Arthur felt that instinct inside him. Fed it.

"You've turned your back on your father! You've turned your back on Cam-"

Arthur and Bran struck. Lashed out with the arrow, plunging the arrow head into Bedivere's side. But the mercenary leapt back. The blow was glancing. Shallow. And now the bald man pulled back. Swung his sword. Arthur could not dodge. Not at this angle. He tried. Had to try. Leapt.

A rush of heat. A scream.

Arthur fell in snow. So cold compared. Heat raged above. He smelled something burning.

The Druid. Arthur saw the Druid, hand raised, standing over the bald mercenary, the fallen knight. Another gout of fire. Arthur squinted. So bright. He scrambled to his feet

"My eyes! Aaaahhh." The man, covered in sputtering fire, rolled in the snow. Screaming, clutching.

Arthur snatched the fallen sword up. Drove it into the man's body. Once, twice, and once more for luck. The body went still. Arthur leaned on the sword, panting. He stared at the Druid, who stood beside him now and was looking wide-eyed down at the corpse.

"You… killed him." Was all he said.

Arthur leaned there a moment longer. Couldn't stay. Had to move. Get back to the village. The snow still fell around them, lazy fat flakes floating down. The wind was gusting. His face was numb. Arthur nodded and straightened up. He kept his grip on the sword. It was getting dark. Had to get back to village. Had to get back-

He glanced around. His horse was gone. Spooked, likely.

Damn.

Arthur sighed and slapped the Druid boy's shoulder and stepped away. "You burned him alive. I just put him out of his misery."

For once, the Druid had no response. Thankfully.

Arthur looked around, took a few steps in another direction, searched. Nothing. No horse in sight. Damn damn damn! He turned back to the Druid.

"We have to get back the village, now. You know the direction?"

The boy was shivering violently with his shoulders hunched, and turned about for a moment, looking at the dark trees that surrounded them. It was so dim the trees didn't stand out against the snow as well as they did before. Everything was fading into night. After a minute or so, the Druid boy pointed in a direction. "T-that way… I think."

"You think?" Arthur grumbled.

"Pick a better direction then. You can go that way, and I'll go mine." The Druid crossed his arms, out of cold or out of anger, Arthur could not tell.

"Don't get your small clothes in a bunch." Arthur walked towards the direction that the Druid had pointed, brushing past him. "Let's get moving."

"Uh…"

"What?" Arthur turned back.

"I need help." The Druid motioned to his leg. Arthur followed the direction with his eyes. Ah. And blood showed through there, dark and black in the dim light of dusk. He had forgotten about that. This just kept getting better and better. "Just something to lean on…" He mumbled and took a few limping steps through the thick snow, towards Arthur.

Arthur walked back and grabbed the boy's arm, slung it around his shoulders, and leaned into the Druid. "Right. Let's get going. I can smell a storm."

"It's a wonder you can smell anything past your own stink." The Druid muttered.

"I'll drop you here."

"I dare you."

Arthur wanted to. But he didn't.

Arthur had smelled a storm. A big one. About half an hour into the trudging journey, the snow was falling thick and fast and every tree creaked and groaned with the winds that gusted through the forest. The snow was thick already, shin-high when they left the village. Now this blizzard threatened to bury them before they were even dead from the cold.

They were not far, Arthur knew. But they were far enough. Everything was numb. His face, his hands, his feet. Even his heart was slowly growing colder with the realization that they were not moving quick enough. The Druid was slow. Slow on his weak leg. Slow in the deep snow. And even slower for loss of blood and the cold. They weren't going to make it much farther.

As Arthur was mulling this over with his half-frozen mind, the Druid stumbled and fell into the snow again. Over the howling wind, Arthur could hear the boy's quick uneven breaths. He could barely see now. The night was about them. Arthur squinted through the falling snow. As the night had drawn on, it had become darker and darker. Now, the forest was a black mess of cold and uneven footing.

He could leave him here. It would be easy. 'The snow took him, Iseldir, I'm sorry. I tried.' His stomach lurched. Disgusting. He couldn't. He just couldn't.

Arthur leaned down and grabbed the boy's arm, hauling him up. "Come on!" He forced his legs forward. "Keep moving!" He groaned, trying to be heard over the storm.

"I can't see." Arthur faintly heard.

"I know!" Arthur pulled the Druid boy's arm over his shoulders again. "Neither can I!"

The Druid pulled away. Then, there was light.

Arthur's eyes hurt a moment. He squinted.

The Druid held a small fire, suspended, between his shaking hands.

"Why didn't you do that before!" Arthur snarled.

The Druid boy stared hard at the flame. His lips moved. He said something. But what? Arthur couldn't hear him. Then the boy glanced around. "Shelter!" The Druid yelled.

"We have to keep moving!"

"I can't!"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a girl!" And he began looking around, peering into the dark trees, looking for some kind of shelter that they could use to weather out the night. Some brush. Some overhanging rocks. Nothing yet. Arthur took the Druid's wrist and pulled the light towards a patch of darkness he couldn't quite see through. "Over here!"

"Hey!"

The flames sputtered. Almost went out.

Arthur let go.

The Druid boy nodded at something. Arthur followed his gaze. Several fallen trees lay there, almost horizontal, forming a natural lean-to. There. That might work. They both trudged over to the fallen trees. By the light of the Druid's small fire, Arthur could see that three trees had fallen very close beside each other and beneath them very little snow had fallen. Arthur nudged the Druid boy towards the hollow there. The boy crawled underneath. Arthur took a few minutes to pile snow at the edges, blocking some of the wind and snow from drifting into the shelter. He crawled in too. Then piled the snow after him. Head bowed at a painful angle and just barely able to sit up, Arthur noted that the needled branches of the trees made a very good roof. The ground was hard, but mostly free of snow. They sat side by side in the dim light. Breathing. Their breath fogged in the cold air.

Arthur sighed. He inched closer to the Druid until their bodies touched. The boy shied away. Arthur laid an arm across the Druid's shoulders and pulled him back. "We'll freeze if we don't huddle."

The boy relaxed and leaned into him.

They sat there a long time. Or a very short time. One or the other. Arthur could feel the Druid boy shivering beside him. Shaking. Like he'd come apart any second. It was violent. Arthur was shivering too. Just not as much. He looked the Druid over.

In the light of the flickering fire, the boy looked very pale, face wet from sweat and snowmelt. Hair wet too. Black hair, very dark. Nothing but skin and bones. No wonder he was shivering so violently. But that was to be expected. The Druids weren't known for their warriors or athletes. They were mystics and scholars and healers.

"So cold." The Druid whispered.

Arthur wondered if they would last the night. "Me too." He agreed.

The fire grew in the Druid's hands. Sparks flew. A crackling sound.

Arthur drew back.

"It is fine." The Druid hissed. "Warm."

Arthur relaxed. The little shelter began to fill with a warmth. It wasn't much. But it was something. The little fire was the size of an apple now and Arthur watched the Druid drop his hands and let the fire hang in the air before them. Close enough to give off a good amount of heat. Arthur was beginning to feel some of his appendages again. Good. This was good. They may last the night.

"Thanks." Arthur nodded at the fire. "It helps."

"Yes." The Druid nodded. "Could you-…" He swallowed. Sweat shone on his forehead. "Look at my leg. Please."

"Yeah." Arthur shifted as best as he could in the small space and leaned down. A shirt, stained with blood, had been tied around it. Arthur pulled it off slowly. The trousers underneath were covered in blood too. The rip in the boy's trousers at his thigh was large enough to let Arthur see the wound behind the cloth. The flesh was torn. The arrow had been ripped out, barbs catching as it came. The Druid jerked back when Arthur's fingers brushed it when he pushed away some dirt.

"Sorry. My hands are rough." Arthur murmured. "It needs to be cleaned. Infection will set, you know?"

"Yes."

Arthur retied the shirt to the wound. "Can't you heal it?"

The Druid boy shook his head.

Arthur sighed. "Druid Chief. Summons fire. Makes people fly through the air. Can't heal a wound?" He shook his head. "Utterly ridiculous."

"I'm ridiculous?"

"Yeah." Arthur rubbed his hands together. The numbness was finally gone.

The Druid boy rubbed a hand across his forehead. "What is ridiculous, is yelling and giving away our position."

That's not quite fair, Arthur assumed that the Druid had left the mercenaries far behind.

"I'm not the sellsword with no sword." The Druid boy continued.

Also not fair. The Druid prick had taken it. And then he'd ran off without it… Gods, that had been stupid.

"And I'm not stuck in a snow hut because my friends decided to kidnap someone!"

That was it. Enough of this.

Arthur shook his head. "They aren't my friends."

"Really?" The Druid was still shaking. "Because they seemed to know you well." He was having trouble getting his words past his chattering teeth.

Something like unease stirred in Arthur's stomach. "Not friends." He repeated.

"Really, my lord?" The boy hissed at him. "Why are you really here?"

Arthur's heart stuttered and he resisted the urge to lean over and vomit. He hated those two little words. Hated them like one hates drowning or being burned. They hurt. They stung. Those two words killed him a little each time he heard them. Arthur ran a hand through his hair. What was the boy accusing him of exactly? He didn't know. He didn't know how much the Druid knew. He didn't know anything, least of all, why he was here. Months ago he had heard of the Druid's quest. That their journey would be this coming spring. And he had just found himself traveling there. Every day, every step, brought him closer to their makeshift village whether he chose it or not. He was drawn there. He couldn't resist it. He was here, and that's all he knew. The rest would come later. Hopefully.

"You really want to know?" Arthur swallowed hard. Silence followed. The cue for him to continue. "My father used to be…he was rich and had many lands. He was a lord. It was to be all mine when I came of age." Saying it like this, these half-truths and almost lies, did not dampen the blow each memory gave him as he summarized his pitiful life. It still hurt. After all these years. "He died when I was ten. His lands were taken by his rivals. I ran away. I haven't stopped since." This damned hut was still cold, despite the floating fire that bobbed in front of them. Arthur took off his over coat and threw it over both of their shoulders. It just about fit; the Druid boy's frame was thin enough. "That mercenary, he was one of my father's men. But I'm not a lord. I never was."

"I'm sorry." Arthur looked and saw the Druid boy's head was bowed.

Good. Sympathy always helped with trust. He wanted that trust for now.

"It was a long time ago." Arthur shrugged as best as he could with the large coat tightly pulling him close to the boy.

"I'm not a lord either."

Arthur snorted. "Really? Coulda fooled me. You certainly act like one."

He felt the Druid laugh a little. Or maybe it was another shudder. But then he saw the smile. A laugh it was.

The Druid's voice was faint when he spoke. "I'm just a bastard from a little village in Essetir."

"Yeah?" Arthur was beginning to feel a little warmer now. Body heat really did help.

"Emrys isn't even my name."

"No?" Arthur felt the boy lean into him, head bowed lower.

The Druid's voice was softer. "No… The Druids call me that."

The warmth of the fire faded. Arthur looked up. The floating fire was shrinking, dimming. What was happening? Arthur watched it fade. Grow smaller and smaller. It shrunk to the size of a bean. And then, suddenly, it was gone. Darkness. Complete darkness. The cold seeped in from the edges of their shelter. Frigid wind.

"Hey, the fire…"

The boy beside him went limp.

Damn! Arthur patted the Druid's cheek. "Hey, Emrys, the fire. Wake up!"

Nothing.

"Emrys!"

He pulled the body into his lap. He struck the boy's cheek.

"Wake up!"

Emrys did not move.

"Emrys!"


	4. Joined at the Hip

Chapter 4: Joined at the Hip

* * *

The light of dawn fell on those damned blue eyes when they finally opened. Arthur sighed.

"It's morning, Princess. Care to join us?" He shook Emrys' shoulder again.

The Druid moaned softly and blinked. "S'cold."

"I know, you let the fire go out." Arthur turned back around and continued digging them out of the shelter. The snow that had fallen the night before had risen just level with the roof of fallen trees underneath which they had weathered the storm. Hands wet and numb, Arthur finally broke through and the morning light that had filtered through cracks in the shelter slammed into his eyes. He squinted. The sun shone above a wasteland of whiteness. Blinding whiteness.

Arthur sat back on his knees. "Let's get you back to the village, huh?" He looked back. Emrys was curled up in a ball.

"Can't move." The boy muttered.

"No such thing." Arthur squeezed out of the shelter, standing, and kicked through the last of the fallen snow.

The air outside the hovel was crisper and much colder. It really had been warm enough in there, as hard as it was to believe. He was still surprised that they had survived the night. But he wasn't one to question things when things actually went well for him. Arthur reached down, took Emrys' arm, and hauled him upwards. The boy wobbled on his feet. Arthur patted Emrys' cheek, hard.

"You have a nice sleep?"

"I'll stay here…" The boy blinked his eyes open again. "You go ahead."

"You'll freeze."

"That's fine." Emrys shrugged and winced. "My leg." He looked down.

"All the more reason to get back to the village." Arthur flung the boy's arm across his shoulders again, wound his own arm about the boy's waist, and began the journey. It was slow. The snow was almost up to their thighs now, about level with their knees. It glittered merrily in the morning sunlight. Arthur knew he was scowling. All that snow was the ugliest thing he had ever seen. And he had seen some things…

"So…cold." Emrys panted, trying to keep up with Arthur.

At this point, Arthur was pretty much dragging the Druid along with him.

"Do some of that…fire-stuff again." Arthur huffed. "That worked."

"I can't…" Arthur could see that the Druid was doing his best to keep up. He slowed down. The boy continued. "I'm too tired."

"Oh, well, if the princess is too tired, I guess…I guess we'll just freeze to death then." Arthur almost laughed. Too tired? To lift your hand to make fire? Did it take effort? He hadn't seen any effort go into it before. Ridiculous!

"You do it…then…if you're so clever!"

"I would if I knew how."

Emrys was quiet a moment, panting softly. Arthur's ears popped slightly. He frowned. A rushing sound. And then a small fire burst into life in front of them.

"There…" The boy gasped. "There…done." He slowed down even more.

"Come on." Arthur eyed the fire, which moved with them, keeping just close enough so they could feel the heat. Arthur was practically carrying the Druid now. "Was that so hard?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm sorry…Lord Emrys- umpff!." They slid down a gully, mostly unseen under the snow. Arthur fell on his arse but the snow cushioned the fall. He picked himself up and heaved the Druid back onto his feet. "Come on!" He helped the boy climb the opposite bank. He thought he may have heard the boy laughing at him, but he couldn't quite tell through all the panting. The ball of flames, sputtering but warm, followed them as they went.

After a minute or so of trudging through the trees again, Emrys spoke. "Don't…have to…call me that."

"What?" Arthur grunted.

"Lord." Arthur felt the Druid boy trying to take more of his own weight. It helped. "I don't like it."

Arthur walked them both around a fallen tree. The village couldn't be too much farther now. They had been walking forever. Well, less walking and more like stumbling and falling. "I don't really…care!" He answered.

"Who was your father?"

Emrys faltered a little, leg crumpling beneath him. Arthur righted him again and kept them moving. "What?" He asked, finally.

Emrys was almost as white as the snow around them. Not good. "Your father-" He bowed his head and made some sort of strangled noise. Arthur watched him clutch at his thigh. Probably trying to hold back a sob. The floating fire flickered and waned. It almost disappeared, shrinking in size rapidly, and Arthur felt the cold close in. A minute later, the boy took a deep breath and asked again. "Who was your father?" The floating fire grew once more and continued to bob along beside them.

Damn, Arthur had been hoping to just throw the Druid off enough that he'd forget the question. He was half-delirious with pain, mostly frozen, and probably feverish. He thought it would be easier than this to distract him. But apparently not.

Arthur shrugged as best as he could. "You don't know him. We're almost to the village, I think."

"Just curious." He heard Emrys mumble.

"Yeah, well…" Arthur trailed off. Some of these trees looked familiar. "Just don't go telling everyone about it. It's not something… Well…" He was struggling for words. How should he put it exactly? Don't tell anyone what I told you because my father's enemies would try to hunt me down one day. Something like that? He wasn't sure. He opened his mouth again, to try and explain better.

"I understand." The Druid spoke softly. "I won't… I won't tell."

Arthur tripped when Emrys went completely boneless again. "Hey!" He growled. His grip on the Druid slipped a little. He stopped. "Are you trying to make this impossible?"

Emrys' head lolled back a little. "Dizzy." He stared up at the sky. Arthur watched him blink slowly. He shook the boy a little and the boy didn't seem to notice. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the fire flickered and shrunk again, but remained beside him.

Definitely not good. "We're almost there."

Emrys did not stir and leaning on Arthur completely.

"Emrys, come on, let's go." Arthur shook him again. He could hardly carry around dead weight like this.

"It's funny…"

"No, it's not." Arthur hauled the boy up again and tried to get him to move. No such luck.

"We're opposites."

Arthur stopped. The Druid really was delirious. "Yeah, opposites, sure. The village is up ahead, come on!" He slapped the boy on the cheek, not hard, but enough to wake someone. Hopefully enough to rouse him.

"I was a bastard and a nobody…and then they made me their lord…" Emrys hadn't really noticed the slap, closing his eyes for a few moments before opening them again. "But you were a lord and…and now you're a nobody…and a bastard too." His eyes slid closed.

By the Gods!

Arthur sighed. "Thank you, Lord Emrys, for your wealth of wisdom."

There was no helping it. He leaned down, pulled and yanked the boy's dead weight, and lifted him so that the upper body lay across Arthur's shoulders and the legs hung down in front and to the side. Arthur began walking again. It was not easy. But how else was he going to get this blithering idiot home.

"Don't call me Emrys."

Arthur actually wished that the stupid prat was passed out again, then he wouldn't have to listen to his prattling on about names and bastards.

"What should I call you?" He puffed, pushing through the snow with difficulty.

"Merlin."

"Not bastard?"

"No."

"All right, Merlin." Arthur sighed.

Another minute of peaceful silence passed by.

The Druid named Merlin or Emrys or whatever spoke again. "M'not calling you Bran the Bear though…is stupid…just Bran."

Arthur considered dropping Merlin right then and there. Just leave the idiot in the snow. Walk into the village and tell them where he'd dropped the little idiot. And then he'd leave and never ever come back. He stopped and sighed. So tempting.

But he started walking again. The first few huts of the village came into view. Arthur smelled the smoke of cookfires. He glanced at the flame beside him, still floating there, right at shoulder-height. And all three of them entered the village.

* * *

Something was wrong. Emrys felt warm. That couldn't be right. When was the last time he'd ever felt warm? He couldn't remember. Was he dying? Don't those dying of the cold feel warm one last time, before they fall asleep forever?

Emrys' thigh throbbed dully just under the surface of his consciousness. He could tell it was painful, but there was some kind of haze that lay over his senses and prevented him from fully feeling that pain.

Sounds slowly filtered in. Voices. People talking. He must wake up. He couldn't die of cold yet, there was still so much for him to do. Emrys struggled to open his eyes. Gods, why were they so heavy? The voices beside him came in and out, from all sides.

"…just in time...any longer and both of you would have…"

"…mercenaries…they knew me…Bedivere…"

Bedivere? That name sounded familiar. Emrys sighed, managing to crack his eyes just long enough to figure out where he was. He knew those rafters well, dark and smoke-stained, herbs hanging here and there. He could smell them. He was in Gaias' hut.

Sick people go to Gaius' hut. So why am I here?

Oh right…

The kidnapping… And the arrow, and the fight, and the blizzard. What he remembered went a little fuzzy there. He frowned. What had happened?

Wait, hold on a moment. Yes, that's right. The snow cave and that long walk back to his village. With Bran. Emrys believed he was remembering it all correctly, though to be honest, it was still a little fuzzy at the end. They had been walking, yes, he had been walking with Bran. Bran the bastard. He smiled a little.

He moved his hand to touch his left thigh, where he could feel that heartbeat-like throb of pain. Bandages there. Real bandages. Not some wet, torn shirt. Good. Someone had noticed his wound and tended to it. Saved him the trouble. Another hand took his; larger, callused, warm.

"Are you awake?"

That voice was familiar.

Emrys tried to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, but he had no luck, and his lips were dry and chapped. He settled for moaning and coughing a little. Though he didn't really choose to cough, his throat just started to tickle and soon enough he was hacking away while someone pushed him until he was sitting upright. That helped. He could breathe better that way. When Emrys finally found the strength to open his eyes, and actually take a breath, he found his uncle sitting beside him. Good lord was it wonderful to see that man again.

"Gaius!" He could barely use his arms. He just managed to get one arm around the shoulders of his uncle and hugged him. His cheek rested on the old man's neck. It was warm.

Gaius hugged back. Hazily, he could tell the old man was being gentle with his embrace. Then, a little too quick, Gaius pulled him back and held him at arm's length. Emrys could feel the old man's squint running up and down his body. "Broth, I think." And he was gone.

Emrys wiped a shaking hand over his face. He supposed he was hungry. He could not quite remember when he had last eaten, but he could feel no hunger.

Emrys watched his uncle putter about: finding a bowl, pouring the broth from a pot over the fire, and swearing about not being able to keep a spoon in the house and where the devil did they all keep disappearing to?!

Emrys smiled and whoever was holding him up shifted and sighed.

He froze. Someone was propping him up. Who? It wasn't Gaius. Emrys turned his head a little.

"You're a lot heavier than you look."

"Gaius." Emrys rasped. "Who let this-" He cleared his throat. "Simpleton in here?"

"Simpleton, my arse." Bran let go and the support disappeared. He stomped off, somewhere. Somewhere into a dark corner. Gaius' hut was full of dark corners.

Emrys leaned back slowly, suddenly finding that he was unable to sit up by himself.

"Mmm? Simpleton?" Gaius asked from across the room. "Oh, you mean Bran. Aha! A spoon."

There was some sort of strangled cry, presumably from Bran. Emrys felt himself smile.

A bowl was pressed into his hands. It was warm. It was deliciously warm. And the smell. Emrys sighed and felt his mouth water. Gaius had never really been much of a cook, but he could tell he was starving at this point. Emrys struggled to sit up as Gaius stuffed another blanket behind his back to keep him propped up. He set the bowl in his lap and waited a moment while his leg throbbed from the movement of sitting up. It abated soon enough.

"Where's my soup?" The mercenary grunted.

Emrys noticed that Bran had, in fact, retreated to a dark corner, and was currently lurking there.

"Are you going to smash any more of my crockery?" Gaius asked darkly.

Any more?

Emrys ignored his spoon and sipped the broth directly from the bowl. It was hot. And that was enough. Too hot to taste. Perfect. He half-listened to Bran and Gaius bickering.

"I'm starving. Are you going to let me starve?"

"You'll damn well starve if you break my dishes."

"I saved your king's life!"

King? Emrys frowned as he took another sip of the mercifully tasteless broth. He was definitely not a king.

"He's not my king. He's not any king." Gaius retorted and Emrys saw him doling out a bowl for the uncouth mercenary too. "He's my nephew."

Emrys snorted and almost spat out the soup.

He lifted his gaze and watched his uncle hand a steaming bowl to Bran. There was a smile there, and a pat on the shoulder. Emrys took another sip. Something was there. He just could not put his finger on it.

"Nephew?" Bran, bowl in hand and mouth slightly agape, looked back to Emrys.

Emrys wiped some of the soup from his chin. "Yes."

And Bran looked to Gaius again. "Really?"

"Yes." The old man answered, nodding.

"Oh." And Bran sat down, hard, on one of Gaius' rickety stools.

"Now." And the cover of the pot over the fire was replaced with a clang. "Eat." Gaius came back to Emrys' side.

Emrys set the bowl in his lap, questions beginning to gnaw at him. He was feeling a little more awake now. Remembering more. Remembering the hired mercenaries that threatened Iseldir. That threatened his people and his village. He felt guilty for not asking sooner.

"Gaius? He cleared his throat again.

His uncle put a hand to Emrys' forehead, a cool hand.

"Still feverish." Gaius mumbled. "Yes?" And he got up again and went to his work table.

"Umm." Emrys reached down and touched the bandage that covered his whole upper thigh. "Is everyone...alright?"

"What?" The healer turned about, a cup of something in hand. "Oh, do come in uh-..." He paused. "Oh dear, I've forgotten your name again."

Across the room, Emrys saw Bran freeze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. He stared behind Emrys. There was suddenly a cold draft in the hut.

He turned a little, looking to the doorway behind him.

"It's Lancelot." The dark-haired young man from the morning, or rather, last morning stood there in the wide doorway.

That's right. A day had passed since then. Strange. Lancelot held open the cloth that kept out the chill from outside, beyond that the snow was blinding, shining in the daylight.

"Do come in." Gaius handed the cup to Emrys. "Drink that, all of it, young man." He muttered.

Lancelot shuffled inside, but only just. The cloth flopped closed when he let it fall.

Bran jumped up. The bowl thumped on the table.

Emrys sniffed the drink. Horrid. He lifted it slowly to his lips, watching the others.

Lancelot thrust something at the mercenary, holding it out between them.

Emrys squinted. In the dim light of the hut, he could just barely see that it was some kind of long bundle, wrapped up with a dark cloth. He pretended to drink the foul-smelling concoction that Gaius had handed to him.

"I cleaned it." He heard Lancelot say.

The mercenary snatched the bundle and began to unwrap it. His hands were shaking. In a moment, a sword was glimmering dully in the firelight from the center fireplace.

"Bran." Gaius rumbled.

The mercenary leveled the sword at Lancelot. Bran spoke slowly. "If you ever-"

Iseldir ducked under the cloth and stepped into the hut.

The sword disappeared.

And so did Lancelot.

Emrys had blinked. And the young, dark-haired man was gone. Bran was left standing there, awkwardly shoving his sword back into its sheath.

"Iseldir." Gaius nodded at the Druid.

And Iseldir nodded back, grey hair swinging gently. The shift of his head allowed the firelight to show the bruises there. Emrys felt his heart quicken. He had let those bruises get there. That was as bad as if he had struck Iseldir himself. He had put those marks there. His fault.

Emrys set the drink on the dirt floor and started to pull himself from the blankets. It was difficult. He began to sweat. His leg screamed. The absence of sound and Iseldir was there. He was speaking. Someone held him. Emrys blinked hard, swallowing against the rushing in his ears. He was tired. Iseldir was speaking. Emrys blinked.

"...Bran killed the man called Veer... The storm began... Weathered the night in a snow drift... Brought here..." Gaius' voice came form far away.

Iseldir spoke again. "He is exhausted."

Emrys watched as the old Druid pulled the blankets back with ease and touched his bandaged thigh. The dark red of old, dried blood spotted through the cloth.

"M'right here." Emrys heard himself mumble. Why would they talk of him like he wasn't there? Like he couldn't speak for himself?

Iseldir disappeared from Emrys' view. "I don't know how to repay you for returning him."

"Money." The mercenary grunted.

"Bran!" Gaius snapped.

"I did not do this out the goodness of my heart. I'm here for pay." The mercenary's voice was loud in the small hut.

Emrys blinked. He was lying on his back again. The dark beams of the ceiling hung above him. The voices continued.

"And you will be paid." Iseldir's voice always filled a room, but he never raised his voice. Strange.

Emrys tried to sit up again.

"Lay back." Iseldir was by his side again, hand to his shoulder, and pushing him back gently.

Emrys slid to the side and brushed the older man's hand off. "I'm fine."

The hand came back and forced him back on the bed. "No, you need to rest. You must be serious about this, Lord Emrys." Iseldir pointed down at him. "These men were able to successfully injure and kidnap you. Think about what kind of position this puts us in. They know where we are." And his mentor left his side.

"'Course they do." Emrys breathed a little easier once the the hand left his chest. "You hired them-"

"I know full well your opinions, thank you!" Iseldir paced about the hut while Gaius and Bran watched him. "Yes, I hired them to protect you. You need protection. You need a bodyguard; someone who can be with you at all times." The old Druid sat down on one of Gaius' spare stools.

"Damn right." Bran grunted from the shadows. "Can barely take care of yourself."

Emrys saw Gaius shoot the mercenary some kind of look, something nasty.

"I-" Emrys cleared his throat, it was still dry. "Don't need a bodyguard. I can take care of-"

"No, you cannot."

"If you would just-"

"The time for discussion had ended." And his mentor used his quietly loud voice again. Somehow he filled the room and yet never raised his voice once.

Emrys snapped his mouth closed.

Iseldir continued. "The events of the past few days have thoroughly proved that. This is no longer just a preference for you." His words stung and Emrys felt some guilt welling up in his stomach. "This is a decision for the good of the Druids."

He was right. It was never what Emrys wanted. It was always what was best for the Druids that looked to him for guidance. Emrys sighed and let his eyes close. He felt tired of this all.

"Bran." Iseldir spoke to the mercenary again. "You are obviously a competent warrior, capable when taken by surprise and adaptable."

"Of course." Bran answered.

Emrys would have rolled his eyes if he felt the effort were worth it. He settled for sighing again.

"I will require your help in the coming days to hire more men to accompany and protect our village. You will advise me on who can be trusted. Will you accept?"

Emrys heard something shift. Bran must have stood up.

"My services are...at your service."

Emrys held back a snort.

"Good." Iseldir answered. Some more shifting. The Druid must have stood as well. "Good. When you aren't assisting me, you will Emrys' bodyguard-"

Emrys' eyes snapped open.

"-you will accompany him everywhere and look to his safety at all times. Lord Emrys is our most important figure and he must be protected at all costs."

"Bodyguard?" Bran choked.

"Everywhere?" Emrys sat up.

The mercenary spluttered out. "No, absolutely not-"

"There is no way-" Emrys tried to heard over the din.

"I can't possibly-" Bran was yelling just as loud.

"He's a dolt!"

"He's a brat!"


	5. Battle of Wills

Chapter 5: Battle of Wills

* * *

Underneath the flap of the tent the air was smoky and hot. Stifling. The old woman lifted her eyes from the fire, one milky-blue and the other dark as pitch. She grinned. The wrinkles in her face caught the shadows and held to them tightly.

He grimaced as he surveyed the scene. "I understand you have a staff for me."

The old woman nodded, still grinning, and reached behind, shawls dragging and almost falling into the little bed of coals that sat in the middle of the tent.

"If you are careful." She rasped. "No one will suspect a thing."

He eyed the long and thin wooden rod that the old woman held in her shaking hands, along with a small pouch, wrapped tightly in leather. But what looked like white chicken down stuck out from one end. Perfect. "Show me how it works." He coughed a little, inhaling too much smoke.

The old woman handed him the rod. "Take it in your hands and…" She held out the little leather pouch to him.

He reached for it.

But she pulled it back and his fingers grasped air. "Don't touch the tips!" She hissed. And after a moment, she held it out for him again. "Above all, do not touch the tips."

He gently took the pouch.

"In one end of the rod you put one of those," The old woman pointed to the pouch. "And on t'other, you just-" And she puffed on the coals at her feet, sending up a few sparks.

He did as she instructed. Silently. Slowly.

"Just keep your hands steady and mind your aim." She warned, shrugging. "But, it is very easy, very quiet."

He raised the rod. "Good." And he puffed like she had, hard.

The old woman gasped. But it was soft, just as quiet as she had promised. She clutched at her neck for only a moment, then crumpled to the floor of the tent. A heap of shawls.

"Very easy." He murmured and lowered the rod. "Very quiet." And he left the tent.

* * *

Arthur didn't know whether to be grateful or furious that some possible recruits had shown up in the night, ready and willing to trained and hired. On one hand, having a reason to stay with the druids would keep him here longer. Which is what he wanted. But on the other hand… He felt his nose crinkle up as he looked over the six most measly excuses for mercenaries that he had ever seen.

Arthur glanced back. Emrys was sitting on a pile of firewood nearby, warming his hands by a cookfire, and looking extremely bored. Kicking his legs back and forth. The brat rolled his eyes when he met Arthur's look. Good. Let him suffer. Arthur snorted and turned back to his recruits.

The first was a boy, fresh off the farm with straw still in his brown hair. The next was too old, too many winters, and his hands shook with some kind of palsy, joints all knotted up and swollen. The third was too fat with no equipment, not even a sword. The fourth was too skinny hungry-looking with terrible equipment, a notched sword and half a shield and a dirty old nag. The fifth was good-sized and a good age, but he was clad in those grey-green clothes so he wouldn't be of any use in a fight. He was spattered in mud and carried a staff, but he had brought a fine horse.

And the sixth? Well, the sixth was that dark-haired youth who had stolen his sword the day before yesterday. True, he gave it back, eventually. Arthur grit his teeth and swallowed hard. He could hardly look at the boy without feeling himself get hot in anger. So the sixth man was useless to him too. Just an archer, judging by his bow.

He sighed and took a few steps to the right and the left to get a better look at the new recruits' profiles, slipping and sliding as he did so. The snow that had fallen the other night in the blizzard had melted a little and re-froze again. No, the view wasn't much better from this angle.

Arthur stopped in front of the gangly youth, fresh off the farm. "You."

"Me, sir?"

Sir? Ha!

"Yes, you." Arthur cleared his throat "Name and occupation?"

"Oh! Um-"

"So your name is 'Oh' and you're an 'Um'?"  
"Oh? No!" The boy stuttered. "N-no, it's- I'm- Farmer- Owain-"

If his feet hadn't frozen about an hour ago and he didn't have to babysit these sad excuses for warriors, Arthur might have been having fun. But the fact was he could not feel his toes in his sodden boots and these men were poor excuses for mercenaries.

Arthur crossed his arms and looked the youth in the eyes. "So your name is 'Farmer' and you're an 'Owain'?"

"No! I-"

Arthur held up his hand. "I know, I know." He moved onto the next man, the old one. "Name and occupation?"

When the old man opened his mouth, he displayed an array of crooked and missing teeth. "Robert, sir." Came the raspy answer, and he looked to be smiling. "I was a huntsman to my lord, 'til I was put in the ranks and fought in the war. An' I was left behind."

Arthur risked a glance down at the knotted joints of the old man's hands, like that of an old gnarled tree. "Can you even still hold a bow?" He nodded down at those frightful hands.

"Aye." Robert the huntsman answered. "That I can, better than I can do most things."

Arthur moved on. "You?" He spoke to the large, fat man now. "Name and occupation?"

The man, whom Arthur had noted was quite rotund, was also absurdly tall and upon further investigation turned out to be composed of a bit more muscle than fat. Just a bit though. He spoke in an almost frightening baritone.

"Smalls, Jan Smalls." In his hand was, presumably, a walking staff. However, said staff looked a just large enough to be more of a hindrance than an aid. The large man carried it well. Easily, even. "No occupation." He added.

Arthur frowned. "Better stick to 'Jan', since 'Smalls' isn't very accurate. And what have you done? Any trade? Any skills?"

Jan shrugged. "Nothin'."

Arthur, again, moved on. Now, he stood in front of the fourth man, thin and youngish. Hungry-looking, to be sure. But then, everyone out here looked hungry these days. "You?"

The thin man nodded. "Pell, sir. I'm a mercenary."

"We shall see." And Arthur stepped away. The fifth man was, again, of good size. He looked sure on his feet, of course, Arthur would have to test him to really get an understanding of the man's capabilities. "And you?"

The man, older than Arthur but younger than the old man, seemed to stand a little straighter when spoken to. "Valiant, sir."

"Is it an accurate name?"

"What?"

"Is it a name that fits you?" Arthur rephrased.

"I try."

"And your occupation?" Though from the worn grey-green robes Arthur had the inkling that Valiant was of Druid stock and may be of no use to him. There were no warriors in Druid culture.

"Hunter." Came the answer.

Arthur wrinkled his nose. "Thank you." So he'd be good with a bow and nothing else. Archers were useless.

And Arthur stopped before the last man, a man with a new, rough hewn bow in his hand and a quiver of arrows on his back. Last and certainly least. He took in the dark hair and broad shoulders, the lowered eyes too.

"Do you really think you belong here?" Arthur asked. This piece of scum who had stolen his sword shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Yes."

"Name?"

"Lancelot."

"Bit of a mouthful."

"Lance, then."

"Occupation?"

"Mercenary."

Arthur waited, staring the youth down. "Occupation?" He asked again.

"Fletcher." Came the eventual answer.

"You make those arrows yourself?" Arthur sighed and walked back and forth in front of the six volunteers. "While the Druids may be accepting of your abilities upfront, I am not. Before you are hired and paid, you will be tested. If you can swing a sword, well and true, you'll find your place here." He put his hands on his hips. "Well, your highness, what do you think of this haul?" He called back over his shoulder to Emrys. "Better than the last one?" He grinned and waited. No answer.

Arthur turned around. Emrys was gone.

"Wh-where did he go?" He whirled around to face the new recruits.

The old man, Robert, shrugged. "He left, while you was talkin'."

"When?!"

"While back."

"Alright!" Arthur stumbled in the snow, sliding and slithering on the slush and ice. "I'll be sparring with you later so start preparing." And he stomped away as best as he could. "I'll be back!"

He went to Gaius's hut first but no one was there. Next was the meeting house, nothing. He scanned cookfires and all the other little hovels as he strode past. Not a glimpse. Where was that little brat?

Arthur stopped, ears pricked. He could hear voices, a lot of them, yelling. Oriented himself. He listened again. It was coming from the trees, outside the druid village. He made for it, following the cheering. He didn't have to go too far. Just far enough away from the village, underneath the barren trees, was a crowd of druids. They were mostly men, but some women and children too, and they were all cheering and clapping. Their eyes were turned upwards. Arthur looked up too.

Up in the trees, men were climbing. Maybe about four men, each to a tree. Upwards and upwards. Clinging to the trunks and practically scampering. Hands grasping frozen snow-covered limbs. Feet slipping until finding purchase against the rough bark. They were all stripped bare to the waist and puffing in the cold air, clouds of their breath filling the gray bare branches of the trees like ghostly leaves.

So the druids enjoyed… tree-climbing? Arthur rolled his eyes.

And he caught sight of his quarry. Across the clearing, with a small smattering of druids in between them, stood Emrys. Watching the spectacle like everyone else. The long-limbed, big-eared brat! Arthur began to push through the throng, making his way to his charge. Their eyes met. And Emrys turned to flee.

"Oi!" Arthur snarled. "Get back here." He lost sight of the boy for a moment in the crowd, but when he emerged from the gray-green sea of robes, Emrys was still standing there. He was leaning on a tree and holding his thigh.

Arthur snorted. So the wound was bothering him? Served him right for running off. Arthur crossed his arm. "Thought we'd agreed that you'd stay close to me."  
Emrys shrugged, looking back up to the climbers. "I got bored." And he smirked at Arthur. "You talk too long for someone with so little to say."

Arthur swallowed hard and resisted putting his hand to the pommel of his sword, where it rested, hanging on his left hip. "Come on then, back to it."

"No." Emrys shook his head. "I'm watching the contest."

"Come on."

"No."

Arthur grabbed the boy's wrist. This was ridiculous. He turned to leave and pull the youth with him.

"I'll scream."

Arthur stopped, looked back. "You'll what?"

"You heard me." Emrys shrugged, looking back up to the tree-climbers. "I'll scream and scream. Now let go."

Arthur did, roughly, tossing the boy's arm back. "I've got a job to do, and-"

"So have I!" The boy spat. "I'm the Chieftain. And last I heard, you were my guard. You are supposed to follow me every day. And as Chieftain, I have many things to do, every day."

"What like getting kidnapped?"

Emrys started forward, despite his injured leg.

In Arthur's mind a few thoughts whizzed by, one of these thoughts was that pissing off someone who could do magic probably wasn't a great idea. To hell with it though, what did he care? He curled his lip. "What are you going to do, set me on fire?"

Emrys stopped and sighed, and Arthur noticed that the boy lowered his hand. A small flame went out. Smoke floated away. By the gods, that had been a close one.

"No." Emrys leaned on against the tree again, head tilted back against the bark to the watch the climbing contest. "You're too dense to catch light."

Squealing and jeers. A dull thud. Arthur started and looked over to see snow dusting down from one of the trees, falling from the branches, disturbed. Someone had fallen.

"What are those idiots doing?" Arthur moved forward and leaned on the tree with Lord Emrys.

A scoffing noise came from beside Arthur. "Those 'idiots', as you call them, are practicing climbing the oak trees, for mistletoe."

Another man lost his grip and fell, only a little, and caught himself on the way down. Only just though. "They're not very good."

"Well, that's why they call it 'practice', don't they? Look-" Emrys pushed off the tree trunk and started limping away into the crowd. "If you're going to be an arse," And he looked back to Arthur. "You can go do it somewhere else!"

Arthur followed, slowly, lazily. The boy couldn't limp very fast and it was easy to catch up to him. "Oh no, you aren't getting away that easy. You're stuck with me, your highness."

Someone must have reached the top of a tree since the cheering got quite a bit louder. Then he and Emrys stood and watched the triumphant Druid climb back down. A few others patted him on the back, grinning. And a few more shirtless men, breaths frozen in the cold air, began to climb up that same tree, racing each other. Arthur spotted one of this recruits. He squinted. That was...the druid who had volunteered. Valiant. Right, he was a druid, he must know all about this contest or whatever it was.

Of course it could be anyone really, when they were up there in the tree, high enough, most of the branches obscured the view. It was hard to tell who was who up there until they came back down.

Arthur looked over at Emrys. The boy was frowning, whole face crinkled up like an angry toad, looking up at the climbers. "What's put a stick up your arse, huh? Hate me that much."

"No." A pause. "Well yes, but that's not it." Emrys limped out of the crowd to lean on a tree again, holding his thigh with one hand.

Arthur watched him, the ginger movements, the panting. He followed. The boy really shouldn't be walking around so much, but there was no way he was going to convince the brat to go sit down. Arrow wounds were nasty, especially the barbed ones. The wounds were deep and would continue to ache for years sometimes.

Emrys continued talking, now that they were a little further back from the loud cheers and clapping. "I should be up there, with them." His voice was low, back almost to the druids.

Arthur sputtered out a laugh. He couldn't help it. "Ha! With your leg?"

"I know!" Was the hissing reply. "If I didn't have this...wound, I would be up there, climbing too."

"A Chieftain... In a contest against his subjects?"

"That is not how it works." The boy was grimacing and holding himself awkwardly so as to not put weight on his leg standing there. "Tomorrow is the turning point between winter and summer, it is a special day, since the day and night are evenly matched. The turning point of the battle."

Lovely. Druid legends. Arthur rolled his eyes.

Emrys continued. "This year, Alban-eilir falls on the sixth day of the moon. It is perfect. What better way to honor the Oak King than to gather mistletoe from his crown?"

And suddenly, Arthur was lost. Did he miss something. Oak King? Alban- Alban-what?

But Emrys did not slow down. "Usually, we gather the mistletoe at Midwinter, and we did. And sometimes after that, if it is needed. But this union between the sixth day and the battle's turning point is important. It does not happen often." And the boy gestured to the climbers in the trees. "Which is why I need to take part. The Chieftain is the one who will lead in the cutting of the mistletoe. I'm supposed to climb up there first tomorrow night. It is important. But my leg will not be healed by tomorrow."

Arthur shook his head. "Probably not."

"No." And Emrys bowed his head, crossing his arms.

Arthur felt he was missing something here. "Aren't druids healers, can't you just ask-"  
"That's not how it works."

"But magic-"

"Not how it works!" Emrys pushed off the tree and started walking away, away from the spectators, and back towards the village. "Come on, Bran. Let's go back to your mercenaries."

Really, they were barely mercenaries. Mercenaries were paid to fight and fight well. Fighting was their skill. It really didn't look like any of those volunteers were skilled in fighting at all.

Arthur caught Emrys's sleeve. "Do you need help?" He watched the boy stumble over some fallen limbs.

"No." Emrys jerked his arm away.

"Alright, alright." Arthur withdrew and followed Emrys. "Tell me more about the- the mistletoe king, or whatever he's called. Is he the king of the druids?" Arthur hadn't heard that there was another ruler of the druids.

"Oak King and Holly King, not mistletoe king." Emrys called over his shoulder. "They do battle all year. On the two days that day and night are the same length, the battles shift. On this one, when spring is before us, it is the Oak King that will now be winning over Holly. When fall is about to come, it is the Holly King that will triumph. Their peaks are the longest day and the longest night. They are two sides of the same person, really. Like two sides of a coin."

So no 'King', just another druid story. "Fascinating." He rolled his eyes again.

"Well, you asked!" Emrys spluttered, falling in the snow again, and slowly picking himself up. "It's a very important day for us, so get used to it. It is a day to celebrate growing things, the sun, it celebrates life!"

Behind them, screams. A cracking noise. A dull thud. Like before.

Arthur craned his neck back. "Looks like someone's fallen again."

Emrys had stopped his struggles, started to walk back to the crowd. "Doesn't sound good." He murmured.

More screams.

Arthur grabbed the boy's arm and together they made good time back to the circle of druids, slipping and sliding the deep snow.

The crowd had parted a little and between shoulders, Arthur could see a crumpled heap on the ground. Arthur swallowed hard. Not moving. A druid woman, blonde hair pulled back into long braided rope, kneeled on the ground next to the fallen man. Shaking him. Crying. Arthur, by Emrys's side, got quite close. The dead man, and he was most certainly dead, lay at a strange angle with his neck crooked and his arm twisted underneath him. One leg was bent, but it wasn't at a joint. And his eyes were wide open. Shocked-looked.

Emrys was speaking to the woman, holding her hand. Saying something. And suddenly he was speaking to Arthur too.

"Bran?"

His name? No, not his name, but…

"Bran?!"

Arthur started. "Yes?" Yes, that was his name. What have come over him? Arthur tore his eyes away from the dead man's gaze and looked to Emrys, his charge.

Emrys spoke softly. "Carry the man to Gaius, please. I'll be there."

Arthur nodded. Would be easier to just do as he asked than to argue. Would be much easier. And the boy had spoken quite well, his tone. Arthur knew leadership, and Emrys had a knack for it. Sometimes.

Arthur bent and made to pick up the man, aiming to throw the body over his shoulder, when there was a tapping on his side. Arthur froze, looked back.

An older druid man stood there beside him, staring at him out from under thick, black brows. His hair was long and touched with gray, as was his black, thick beard. The crowd melted away around them, the fun of the contect quenched by this death. And the man pointed at the body, his voice soft. "Take shoulders and I will take the feet."

Arthur nodded. "Thanks."

Together, they bore the body back to the village. The work was slow, since the forest was thick and the snow was deep. But both of them managed to keep their feet under them.

After a few minutes, the man spoke again. "So you are our lord's protector? You look quite young for such an important position."

Arthur snorted. So news had traveled fast in a day and a half. "If I am unqualified, by all means, you may take my place."

"Oh, no. If only it were so easy to escape fate." Came the soft answer behind him. "No, I believe that job was given to you for a reason."

Or a punishment, Arthur considered. "And what might that be?" He puffed. Gaius's hut came into view down the street. Thank the gods, this body was getting heavy.

The soft voice slithered into Arthur's ear from behind. "Your paths must lie together, young warrior. Emrys faces many threats, from friend and foe alike. And you are a formidable threat yourself, standing between him and his enemies. If he is to unite the Druids and-"

"Look." Arthur panted. "This is just a job, I'm getting paid to protect the little br-, the lord. Don't think that it means I like him."

They entered Gaius's hut and the man helped him lay the dead man out on a bedroll on the floor. He could feel the broken bones clicking and grating just beneath cooling skin.

"A half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole."

Two sides of the same person. Two halves of a coin. Something in Arthur's mind gleamed. The Oak King and the Holly King. Summer and Winter. Day and Night.

Arthur opened his mouth and turned to tell off this creepy old man. But he was gone. Arthur was standing alone in Gaius's hut, the leather covering on the door that usually kept the wind out flapped, catching a gust of cold air. Strange. He groaned and sat down on a stool, joints creaking, to wait for Gaius and Emrys. The fire crackled in the center of the room, merrily, but he did not feel the heat.


	6. One for the History Books

Chapter 6: One for the History Books

* * *

"I would say that the fall killed him, but…" Gaius trailed off, stepping away from the body.

Emrys, who had been sitting on a stool, stood up. "But what?"

The old man wiped his hands on a rag and stared down at the body on his table a moment longer. "There is this-" Gaius pointed to a deep, dark-colored bruise on the man's neck, a bruise surrounding a reddish, raised pinprick in the skin. The entire area looked a little swollen. "It could be a wound he acquired during his, uh, fall. But it is strange?

Emrys cringed and stepped back, limping a little. His thigh throbbed.

"Is it?" Came a voice from beside the cookfire. "Man falls, and he dies, end of story."

Emrys frowned at his bodyguard. "Gaius, how do you heal a man who has been set on fire?"

Gaius drew a cloth back over the body, covering it. "Lord Emrys, I believe you are responsible for anything that may happen to your bodyguard, self-inflicted or not. But the matter at hand-"  
"Yes, yes." Emrys chewed on his lip a moment. "The fall could not have caused that."

"Why not?" Bran grunted.

Emrys looked to Gaius, sighing.

The old man merely shrugged and stepped away, towards his work table, and began chopping something. "You tell him."

"Tell me wh-"

Emrys turned to his bodyguard. "The body does not bruise after death. Here is a bruise on this man. So, it happened before he died."

Bran frowned and scoffed a little. "People bruise all the time."

Emrys limped back to his stool; he really couldn't stand much longer. "That one is fresh."

"So he got it while climbing."

"What about the wound?" Emrys asked.

"What wound?"

Emrys had to stand up, his own injury stinging as he did so, and pulled the cloth off the dead man again.

In the moment before Bran came to stand beside him, Emrys looked the man over. His name had been Laidan. His wife was Eaine. They had one child, a girl, and she was still an infant and yet to be named. He would have to make sure Eaine and the babe were taken care of. There were a few older women in the village that would welcome the help, and wouldn't mind watching the baby while Eaine worked. He would just have to ask around and-

"So, what wound?" Bran grunted.

"Here." Emrys pointed to the pinprick that Gaius had just showed to him.

The blonde man laughed. "That little thing killed him?"

"Not necessarily." Emrys pulled the cloth back over Laidan's face. "But we don't know where it came from."

"If I didn't know better," Gaius piped up from behind them. "I'd say it was a snakebite because of the bruising and swelling, but there is only one wound, not two."

"And there's still snow on the ground." Bran walked back to the flap of cloth that covered the entrance to Gaius's hut. "Try and find a snake in this weather. I dare you." He pulled the cloth back and an icy gust flew inside.

Emrys shivered and followed Bran outside. "You'll be finding one in your bedroll soon enough."

The rest of the day was spent training the new recruits. And Emrys couldn't find a way to escape this time. Bran found a spot for Emrys to sit that put him in full view while Bran instructed the men. There was no slipping away this time. It was horridly boring. And he had better things to do, besides.

Once the training was done, all the new mercenaries were huffing and puffing, red-faced and bruised. It was about midday, the sun a hazy beacon behind the winter clouds. Now it was Emrys's turn to attend to his own responsibilities. Bran, his new bodyguard, followed him about the village.

"What is there to eat?" Bran asked as they walked to the meeting house. "Or am I actually allowed to eat?" This question was a bit more sarcastic than the first.

Emrys snorted. "No."

"You lie."

"A chieftain does not lie." Emrys stuttered a bit as he slipped in some slush, jarring his wound. He gasped, even though he tried not to.

Bran took his arm and steadied him. "Well, you do. I'm hungry." The bodyguard sighed. "Some stew would be lovely right about now.

Emrys pulled his arm away. "Go see Gaius then, since you're sleeping there. I've got to prepare."

"Prepare for what?"

The meeting house came into view. Almost there. There were a few things he needed to discuss with Iseldir before the other clan leaders arrived the next day. And there was the mistletoe gathering to consider. Emrys felt himself sigh. And Laidan's widow, Eaine.

"Tomorrow." Emrys reminded Bran. "Alban-eiler? Remember?"

"Ah, the uh- the mistletoe king?"

"No, it's the-..." The arrow wound in Emrys's thigh reached a kind of crescendo and he was forced to stop, standing in the snow, and grimace.

"Are you going to faint again?"

He heard the question from far away; Emrys's hearing had gone a little fuzzy. He would have snapped back if he could. The moment passed, however, and he breathed in deeply, taking the cold air into his lungs. Emrys felt a little better and started walking. He noticed that Bran was holding his arm again, but Emrys didn't pull away this time. He needed the support.

They finally ducked into the meeting house and it was empty. Bran maneuvered Emrys onto a bench covered in furs. They were both panting after the exertion.

"Go get your stew." Emrys puffed. "I'll be fine here."

Bran sat down beside him. "I'll stay. Don't want to get sacked on my first day."

Emrys sighed. "I won't be assassinated in the next ten minutes. Go eat. Or do something else. I don't need you."

"Oh no. Some more mercenaries could burst in here any second and steal you away again."

"Ha!" Emrys grunted. "I'd like to see them try. I'll set them all on fire this time. Besides," He put a hand to his thigh and felt the bandage there. It was dry. No bleeding. Good. "We all expected that it would be another druid to do the deed. Not some hired criminal."

"They all love you. Not that you deserve it."

Emrys winced and snapped back. "They don't!"

"Really?" The blonde mercenary turned and looked at him.

Emrys nodded. Silent for a moment while he chose his words. "This here, in this village, is only one clan. Or a couple clans, now. Our numbers are growing every day. They are my supporters. And I was chosen to be the Chieftain, of all the clans. But some people disagreed with that decision."

"Who made the decision?"

"A council."

"And how long have you been chieftain?" The bodyguard's voice had softened a little. And Emrys could tell that he was not making fun of him anymore.

"Since I was seven winters." Emrys answered.

"And how old are-"

"Seventeen." It had been ten years. Ten very long years.

Bran whistled softly. "A long time. And they are still upset?"

"Yes." And in his mind, the faces of the clan leaders floated before him. Emrys closed and opened his eyes. Many had denounced him. Many had tried to replace him with a person of their choosing. But so far, he had prevailed. Only he. He swallowed hard. "There's something like a belief, one that's been around a long time, about my title. About who I am. About my birth, really. It's hard to explain, but there are some legends-"

At that moment, Iseldir pulled back the flap and stepped into the meeting house. "My lord." He nodded at Emrys, and then Bran. "How is your wound?" He asked Emrys, walking to the small center firepit to warm his hands.  
"It doesn't trouble me." Emrys answered and he stood up. Bran stood up with him. "Have you heard about Laidan?"

"I have. I'm sorry. This is supposed to be a celebration, and no one should die for that."

Emrys nodded, noticing the sorrow in Iseldir's voice. His heart ached for it. Iseldir was a kind man, and Emrys could never hope to be as good. What would a Chieftain do? He asked himself.

Emrys moved over to the fire, standing opposite Iseldir, fire between them. "Eaine and her baby should be cared for."

"I've seen to it. Widow Emrah has agreed to take her in. Have you had your wound bandaged today?

"Yes, but-"  
"What did Gaius say?"

Gaius had replaced the bandages on his arrow wound. And he had inspected it, sniffed it quite a bit, and pronounced it not infected. Which was a relief. But it did not really matter right now. Emrys answered. "He said it's fine. About Laidan, it looks like something may have injured him before the fall." Emrys stopped there and watched Iseldir's reaction.

The older Druid was currently laying a few new, dry logs on the fire. He did not stop or look up. "Does Gaius think someone hurt him?"

What about what I think?

Emrys swallowed. "We were talking of it. And it's possible."  
"Hmm." Iseldir straightened up, groaning a little as he did so. The fire crackled merrily in the silence of the meeting house. "I should go talk to Gaius." And he started towards the leather flap that covered the doorway.

Emrys followed as best as he could. "And about the envoy tomorrow? Is everything still in place to greet them?"

Iseldir turned back, hand on the flap and pulling it back. A rush of cold air chilled them. "I believe so. Nothing has changed."

Emrys and Bran followed Iseldir outside. A few people rushed by, men, shirtless and carrying sickles. Emrys saw the metal blades flashing in the white light of the cloudy sky above. Someone whooped loudly in the distance.

Bran started and drew his sword.

"See?" Iseldir gestured to the druids, who were entering the trees just outside the village. "They are still ready to greet Alban-eiler."

Emrys smacked Bran's shoulder. "Put that away." And he nodded to the sword.

Bran grumbled. "I see people with running with blades, I get nervous. Don't blame me."

"They're sickles, for harvesting mistletoe."

"A blade's a blade."

Emrys struggled to keep pace with Iseldir's long strides as they headed towards the healer's hut. Bran seemed to saunter along. Emrys huffed and puffed, trying to keep his ragged breaths quiet. It really wasn't fair.

"So, Bran." Iseldir spoke again. "How are the men that arrived the other day? Are they up to your standards?"

Silence.

Emrys looked to his bodyguard. The mercenary's cheeks were pink, which could have been from the cold, but still.

"Yes, um-" Bran cleared his throat. "A few show promise, sir."

Emrys wrinkled his nose. He was called "brat" while Iseldir was given the honorific of "sir"? He felt like setting something on fire.

Bran continued. "Others, however, seem a little...unfit."

"Unfit?"

"I wouldn't trust a few to hold the right end of a sword."

They turned a corner and Gaius's hut came into view. Iseldir held the curtain that covered to doorway open for Emrys and Bran. Both ducked inside.

Iseldir spoke once more. "I hope you can teach them, Bran. If you can not, we will have to find someone else to do it for you. Now, Gaius?"

Emrys stood by the door, seeing the old physician look up from a book he had spread out over his worktable. "Iseldir, what can I do for you?" The body that had been covered by a sheet earlier in the day was now wrapped for burial. Or rather, Laidan was wrapped for burial. He had been a man a few hours ago.

The silver-haired druid stood beside the body. "Lord Emrys has told me that you suspect that what happened to Laidan was not an accident?"  
Gaius stood. "Well, there were some strange markings, but-"

"On his neck." Emrys cut in. "There was a strange mark."

"A mark?"

"Well-" Gaius began.

"But it was the fall that killed him, correct?" Iseldir asked.

Gaius looked between Emrys and Iseldir for a moment or two, frowning. "There was some unusual bruising, yes, but-"

"Shut up!" The bodyguard almost commanded and pulled back the cloth over the doorway. "Can you hear that?"

Emrys opened his mouth, but closed it when he heard the scream. Distant, and crying out repeatedly. His blood froze. "What-"

"Come on!" And Bran sped off.

Emrys limped as best as he could after him.

He heard Iseldir and Gaius's voices behind him, but did not pay them much mind.

He followed Bran, who followed the screams, and they led into the little clearing from that morning. In the patchy snow, since some had melted through the day, lay another man fallen from a tree. He was not dead.

* * *

"Arthur? Would you light another candle, please?"

"Bran." Arthur corrected.

"Damn!" Gaius stopped what he was doing and bowed his head, sighing very loudly. He stayed that way for a moment or two, his lips moving silently.

Arthur frowned, watching him.

The moment passed and Gaius looked up again. "I'm sorry. I find it hard to remember. The past couple of days…"

Arthur grabbed a half-used candle from the pile on Gaius's worktable and lit it gently from the little firepit. He handed it to Gaius.

"Thank you." The old man nodded.

Arthur put a hand on the old man's shoulder. "Don't trouble yourself too much."

Using the light of the lit candle, Gaius's bright eyes stared hard at Arthur. "Yes, well, one slip of the tongue and you'll…" He looked away and bent over a shivering, sweat-shining body that lay on a pile of furs. "You'll be in grave danger."

"I know." Arthur squatted down beside the physician and looked over the patient as well. "So, what is wrong with him?"

The second man who had fallen from the treetops had been brought to Gaius's hut, still alive, but in a very bad way.

Arthur thought back. The little chieftain had called the man something, but… His name? He thought a little harder. No, he could not remember now. He couldn't remember the man's name. Oh well. But it looked as though he may be paralyzed. He could not move much. And here he had lay for the rest of the day until nightfall. Arthur had returned from Meeting Hall, where Emrys slept, with the intention of coming back later that night after assisting Gaius.

Gaius hummed in reply, passing the candle over the man several times, trying to get the best view of the druid's condition. "It is difficult to say. It would be common sense to guess that his back was broken."

"But?"

"I checked, and it does not seem to be."

"Ah." Arthur nodded. He watched the druid pant, struggling to breathe. "He looks ill."

"I thought that too, yes." Gaius reached out and used a cloth to dab at the man's mouth. He did not seem to be able to swallow, and his spittle flowed from the corner of his mouth and down the side of his face. "There is no fever, though."

Arthur would have preferred to leave and not look at this anymore. Why would he want to watch someone suffer in their last hours? But Gaius had asked for his help. And Gaius had promised stew too. And fresh bread. Though watching this spectacle was starting to turn his stomach. Arthur stood up.

"I must confess." Gaius followed, sticking the candle on his table. "I am at a loss."

Arthur pointed to the little pot over the firepit. "Is this ready?"

"Hmm? Oh. Yes, yes." Gaius waved his hand in that general direction.

Arthur took the pot off the fire and set it on the ground, ladling stew out into a clay bowl. It steamed in the cold air. Try as they might, they couldn't keep out the last death throes of winter and so the hut was cold unless one stood by the firepit. Arthur blew across his bowl of stew, took a scalding first sip, and swallowed. "And you've looked at his neck?"

In the dim light, Arthur saw Gaius look up at him. "Yes."

"And?"

"The same marking, a puncture. And this." The old man picked up an empty clay bowl and held it out to Arthur.

Arthur took another sip of his stew, chewing on what he hoped was a turnip. "A bowl?" He raised an eyebrow.

"No, indeed!" Gaius took the stew away and shoved the empty bowl in Arthur's hands. "Inside the bowl, have a look."

Arthur looked. "Nothing there."

"There is."

Arthur crouched a little so the light of the fire fell across the bowl's contents. He squinted. Something was there. A sliver of wood. Arthur reached in and picked it up. If he didn't know better, he'd have said it was a splinter that someone had caught under their skin. He handed the bowl and piece of wood back to Gaius, hand outstretched for his stew.

Gaius handed his dinner back to him.

"So." Arthur took another bite. This one had a bit of venison in it. "He fell from a tree, with a splinter in his neck? Where is the bread?"

"Sticking straight out."

"What, the bread?"

The physician sighed, crouching down beside the dying man again. "Bread? No, the splinter, the piece of wood I showed you."  
"Oh." Arthur chewed thoughtfully. "Straight out, like… like an arrow stuck in a tree."

"Yes, like an arrow."

"Not like a normal splinter."

Gaius looked up, met his eyes, and shook his head. They stared at each other for a few more seconds.

It was Arthur's turn to sigh. "You suspect something?"

The old man turned back to his patient again and spoke with his back turned. "There has been a number of strange...occurrences, has there not? And with Alban-eiler and the envoy arriving tomorrow." Gaius trailed off.

Arthur circled around and crouched down too, opposite Gaius, the sick druid between them. "Why the envoy? Who are they? Why is it on your mind, in connection to this?" He pointed down to the dying man.

Gaius seemed to wince and lowered his voice. "It is an envoy from another clan, one that has not always… Well, they don't…" He kept starting sentences and then thinking better of them.

Something clicked in Arthur's mind. "They don't like the little chieftain."

"Emrys." Gaius corrected him with a frown. "And no, they don't. This envoy is important. It's not certain, but there may soon be an alliance."

"Someone may be sabotaging this alliance." Arthur rubbed his eyes, yawning.

"It's possible."

"Yes, well, I suppose you're going to ask me to look into it."

"It is your job. Protect the Chieftain." Gaius reminded him. "Is there another reason that you are here?" The physician looked up, firelight reflected in his eyes.

Arthur looked away. "No."

Silence. The druid's hitched breathing coming from below. The fire crackled. Years stretched out between them. One, a boy. The other, a mentor.

"Where have you been?"

He wasn't sure he could answer that question. Arthur stood up. "Nowhere."

"I thought you were dead."

"I am."

Arthur stepped outside in the brisk wind, shivered, and began walking back to the meeting hall. He wrapped his arms around his body and trudged on against the cold. He knew why he was here. Here of all places, in the middle of nowhere, squatting in a pathetic excuse for a village. Eyes burned with the cold wind. Or tears. Arthur bowed his head and walked on. His father would have wanted this. He had to try.

Arthur pushed into the meeting hall and made sure the cloth that kept out the wind and cold was firmly in place. He turned around, panting and shivering. "Oh, sorry. Should I go?"

"We're just finishing." The older druid, Iseldir, said over his shoulder from where he kneeled on the floor.

Partially blocked from view, the little chieftain lay on the floor. He lay on his stomach and with no shirt, baring his back. The firelight flickered over his skin, giving it an orange hue. Iseldir then stood. Arthur squinted. Something was there on Emrys's back, something dark and spidery. He stepped forward.

"Get some sleep, my lord." And Iseldir left.

Emrys didn't move from where he lay on his bedroll, Arthur's bedroll beside it. As Arthur approached, the dark lines on Emrys's back took shape. He was covered in tattoos. So many, Arthur couldn't take it all in at once. As soon as he finished examining one, he found another to study. He felt his mouth hang open a little, realized it, then sat down on his own bedroll and began to get ready for sleep.

"What are all those?" He asked.

"Tattoos." Emrys mumbled into his blankets, his head turned away from Arthur and towards the little firepit.

"I know that." Arthur scoffed. "I have eyes. What are they for?"

"Anything really." Emrys shrugged as best as he could. "What do you care?"

"Little chieftain's in a bad mood."  
"Don't call me that."

"What?"

"I swear…" Emrys sighed, turned his head towards Arthur. "I'll set you on fire." He still lay on his stomach.

"Don't be such a girl." Arthur flopped down onto his back and got comfortable, kicking off his boots.

"Go sleep outside." Emrys grumbled.

Arthur found his eyes drifting towards the boy's exposed back and the dark blue tattoos there. Some of them looked like writing, several lines of runes encircled the boy's upper arm. Some looked like pictures, there was a large tree, a crescent moon, and other things. Arthur laid there quietly studying them. One wasn't blue though. It was red.

"What's that one?"

"Which one?" Emrys's eyes were closed now.

Arthur reached out and poked a strange symbol made of three spirals in a triad shape. It lay just about where Emrys's left kidney would be. "This one here-"

Emrys jerked away at his touch. "Don't touch it!" He hissed. "It needs to dry."

"It's dry, alright? What is it?"

Emrys reached a hand back, gently, and touched the symbol on his skin. "It's the symbol of the clan that's arriving tomorrow. If they join us, Iseldir will tattoo it there, so they can see that… That…." He sighed and laid back down, mumbling into his blankets. "They watch me get tattooed. It's ceremonial. It shows my commitment." He groaned. "I was just waiting for the ink to dry. It's the template."

"Hmmm." Arthur gave the symbol another glance. "Is that where all the others come from?"

"Some of them." Emrys finally sat up and began putting a shirt on, shivering a little. "Histories, important events, things I've done, things the clan has done, everything is here." His chest was also covered in intricate tattoos. "On me." And he laid down on his side, facing Arthur now.

"So," Arthur raised an eyebrow. "You're some kind of history book?"

The chieftain chuckled. "I guess so."

Arthur stared up at the beams that supported the roof and yawned. The firelight flickered up into the darkness. "Would any people in that clan want to kill you?"

"What?" Arthur heard the boy shift beside him. A moment passed. Emrys spoke again. "Probably. A lot of people want to kill me."

Me included, Arthur thought to himself, and closed his eyes.


End file.
